


Sabra

by MessyInsomniacBookGirl



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, thorin - Fandom, thorin oakenshield - Fandom
Genre: Dissociation, Dwarves, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Flashbacks, Graphic Description of Corpses, M/M, Modern Girl in Middle Earth, Mostly Canon Compliant, Paranoid Dwarves, Piercings, Pissed Off OFC, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape, Sniper - Freeform, Stubborn Dwarves, Suicidal Thoughts, Tattoos, The Hobbit Compliant, Tough woman, Violence, mercenary, strong woman, tonic immobility
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-17 09:27:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 32
Words: 93,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13656180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MessyInsomniacBookGirl/pseuds/MessyInsomniacBookGirl
Summary: 'It’s just a bit of easy recon', they'd said. 'In and out, easy peasy', they'd said. 'You’ll be back by dinnertime tomorrow', they'd said.How she had ever been goaded into doing the recon mission, Sabra would never know. But she went, anyway.One minute, she was minding her own business, doing some last minute recon, in a very desert-like mountain range, about one hour of flying to the north of basecamp, in the north eastern part of Afghanistan; the next, she was being shot at by insurgents, which led to her falling to her death -or, so she thought, at that exact moment- down a three hundred feet high rock cliff.Only, after falling for a fraction of a second, she landed -still quite painfully- on a grassy slope.When she came to her senses, she was laying next to a stream, the three hundred foot drop nowhere in sight.Unless you counted the cliff face to her left. But that was only about twenty feet high... At most.And who the fuck are those short men on their ponies?!-----------Okay, this was supposed to be a simple Girl-Falls-Into-Middle-Earth thingy. It is not anymore. Simple, that is. It has become an Adventure! O.O





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing but my OC.
> 
> I make no money from this story.
> 
> I've broadened the borders of my Sandbox a bit. Middle Earth has been confiscated.

**Prologue**

\---

_Sunday, 26 March, 2017. Somewhere in the mountains in North-Eastern Afghanistan._

\---

_It’s just a bit of easy recon_ , they said. _In and out, easy peasy_ , they said. _You’ll be back by dinnertime tomorrow_ , they said.

Well, fuck them, and their toasty behinds, sitting beside a heater all day! It was ‘dinnertime tomorrow’ right _now_ , and there was no extraction in sight. Fuckers!

How she had ever been goaded into doing this recon mission, Sabra would never know. 

One moment, she was at basecamp in Charikar, Afghanistan, packing up her stuff and looking forward to a well deserved vacation -which consisted of herself and her arse, planted comfortably on a warm, sunny beach in Hawaii-, and the next she’d been carted off to god knows where, with a helicopter, to do some last minute recon in a mountain-range, about one hour of flying to the north of basecamp. 

Supposedly, there had been a few slightly alarming sightings of wanted insurgents in the region, and the UK army -who were her employer’s employers- were getting a bit antsy about it. They’d wanted eyes on the ground ASAP. 

Hence, here she was. Freezing her tits off as the weather went from a frigid, but sunny, spring day to a midwinter gale. The darkness wasn’t helping much either. This would be the second night she spent on this mountain, and she was no closer to finding anything amiss, than she had been, thirty-six hours earlier.

She’d been camped out on a ridge, high above a settlement, for the past twenty-four hours. Peering through the scope on her rifle, she could only just make out movement below. Twilight had come and gone, and pitch darkness was creeping up on her, swiftly. In about twenty minutes, she wouldn’t be able to see her hand if she waved it in front of her face. Time to set up bivouac. She couldn’t risk light, so she rolled out her bivouac bag, going by touch, and stuffed the ultralight sleeping mat and sleeping bag inside it, weighing it down with a few rocks, so it wouldn’t blow away in the storm; which, by now, had begun to cough out icy white fluffs. 

_Great_. Snow. It increased not only the danger of hypothermia, but also of being discovered in the morning. She hadn’t brought her snow-gear and her kaki and dark grey clothing would stand out as a sore thumb when the sun came up. Not to mention the fact that she’d be slipping and sliding the whole way to extraction tomorrow. _Urgh._

Before climbing into her bivouac completely clothed, she took off her boots and set them to the side of her sleeping gear, inside the shelter. On the other side she stowed her rifle, because there was no way she was going to leave that out over night, especially not in this storm. Her backpack, she shoved into the shelter and kicked it down to the foot end as she got into her sleeping bag, thanking the gods she was so wicked short that there was room for a full daypack at the bottom of the seven foot bivouac bag. her stuff might all be slightly cold by morning, but at least everything would be dry.

Grumbling at the cold temperatures and the lumpiness of her outer gear, which she was definitely _not_ taking off for the night -she was tired, not stupid-, she zipped the bivouac bag completely closed before opening a netted vent by her face so she wouldn’t suffocate, or condensate and freeze up the entire bag, while she was asleep. Not that she’d be getting much sleep with the cold and the howling of the wind. And she’d have to wake up to shove off the snow from the bag every couple of hours. Not for the first time, she cursed those nosy motherfuckers at basecamp. 

Fishing a balaclava from her pocket, she pulled it on beneath the beanie she was wearing, leaving only her eyes and mouth free from the cloth. Better safe than sorry and better warm than frozen. She had no plans on waking up dead; or with a frostbitten nose.

She slipped her glock from it’s holster and laid it next to her head. One never knew when it was needed, especially in hostile territory. She checked if her Fairbairn-Sykes dagger was still in it’s sheath on her leg, which it was, and if her curved karambit knives were both still safely tucked away in their respective sheaths on both her left and right side, which they were.

Glock, safety _on._ Rifle, safety _on._

_Check. Check. Double check._

She was a one woman army, with matching weapon’s arsenal. Additional ammunition, for both the rifle and the glock, and two other knives -Russian ballistic knives- were inside her backpack, but easily accessed if necessary. 

Assured that everything was as it should be, Sabra ate the last of her nutri-bars and then closed her eyes and tried to get some rest before morning. She’d set her watch to wake her up with vibrations, about an hour before sunrise. That would give her enough time to break up camp, and get out of the sightline of the village, before she was spotted.

 

Morning came much too soon. After a restless and frosty night, she was feeling grumpy and cold as she woke up.

Sighing, she patted her rumbling tummy. No food left to assuage it. Eating would have to wait until after extraction, later that day. At midnight, she’d gotten a communique over her earpiece. The insurgents had been found, a few clicks to the west, and dealt with, so radio silence was okay to be broken. Her extraction point had been determined, and she was to go there first thing in the morning. Extraction would be at noon sharp. 

She made quick work of breaking up her camp, and within thirty minutes, all her sleeping and camping gear was packed away in her backpack, and her glock was back in its holster on her thigh.

Just as she shouldered her rifle and arranged for it to hang comfortably in front of her, she heard a shout, and then a shot. Near her feet, snow and stone sprayed upwards, hitting her trousers. 

_Fuck!_ She’d been spotted.

As she instinctively turned towards the shouting, she took a step back to keep her balance. It was a lethal mistake. She knew it the moment her foot hit an iced over stone. She slipped, losing her balance and stumbling backwards. Her feet scrambling in vain for a foothold.

And then there was no more rock. Only air. She tumbled backwards over the ledge she’d been standing on. A ledge that had a drop off of at least three hundred feet. This was it. The end.

Sabra gasped in shock and then let out an involuntary scream as she hung suspended above the abyss for what felt like a lifetime. Then she was falling.

She curled into a ball and turned in the air, so her backpack would receive the brunt of the impact, but she knew it was fruitless. Nobody survived a three hundred foot drop.

She closed her eyes as she clung to her rifle, waiting for impact, and the end of her life.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Falling doesn't hurt. It's the landing that's lethal...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing related to Tolkien's world(s).
> 
> I make no money from this story.

**Chapter 1**

 

_Monday, 27 April, Third Age, 2941. The East Road, a few miles outside Hobbiton, The shire._

 

Impact came a lot sooner than she expected. She had only just gone over the ledge. Before she could wonder about anything else, the air was pushed form her lungs with an audible whoosh, and her bones rattled from a much more cushioned impact than she had expected; not only from her backpack taking the brunt of the fall, which was mostly packed with her sleeping gear and thus quite soft, but also from the ground, which gave way a bit.

Severely winded, she tried to get her lungs to work again before she passed out from oxygen deprivation. Black spots danced in front of her eyes as she sucked in air in loud wheezes. She stubbornly ignored the pain in her ribs and back in favour of pulling in much needed air.

When her breath was streaming back into her lungs in regular wheezes, she could feel snow landing in cold patches on her lips and tongue; the only parts of her -barring her eyes- that were uncovered. It was in strange contrast with the suddenly much warmer air around her. Her body, which was wrapped up in the heavy winter clothing she’d donned at the beginning of her mission, was already starting to sweat. Strange, the things you notice when you should be thinking about other things. Such as, oh, maybe, how she wasn’t dead? She didn’t even hurt enough to warrant a fall of three hundred foot. And, _how_ wasn’t she _dead_?!

It was then, that she noticed she still had her eyes closed, and the black spots she’d been seeing earlier were set off by the red and white of her eyelids, through which daylight shone.

As she relaxed the cramped muscles of her arms and legs, folding them out again and checking them for breaks or sprains, she opened her eyes to a very different landscape than the one that had been present when she’d closed them. 

Gone, were the grey and brown peaks and slopes of the arid, desertlike, Afghan mountains. In their stead, she looked up to a grey and white cliff face that couldn’t have been more than twenty feet high. Vegetation was lush all around her, grass, trees, bushes, flowers. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say she was back in England. Somewhere in the Pennines, perhaps. 

But that wasn’t possible. A person didn’t just transport halfway around the world in a matter of seconds… _Did they?_

A sudden snort and whinny, coming from a horse, alerted her to the fact that she wasn’t alone -wherever here was-, while she was laying at the foot of a cliff, on her back, on her backpack, like a damn turtle laying on it’s shield.

Voices came into focus. Male voices. Speaking… English? It sounded a bit off to her ears. Like, she could understand it, but it wasn’t really english… _Curious_.

‘What was that?’ A worried voice asked.

‘Did you see that flash?’ Another voice, sounding more excited than wary, which was how the other voice had sounded. 'It was like lightning. But there's no thunder...'

‘Look, where did he come from?’ Well, that tone was outright hostile.

Sabra let her head fall back, so she could visually pinpoint the people who were talking, and saw men on horseback, not fifteen feet from her, on the other side of a narrow, babbling brook. One of the men was pointing at her. It was hard to make out their expressions like this, with her head suspended upside down. She did see a lot of frowns, though. Except for the man in front of the… caravan?… group?…

At first he looked surprised by her appearance, but then he appeared very amused by the position she was in. He must also think she looked like a stupid turtle. She frowned at that thought. 

‘Is that… _Snow_?’ One of the men asked, incredulously, as he pointed at the white fluff that was melting all around her. 

There were now a lot of men grouping together at the other side of the stream and they were mumbling amongst one another, throwing her frowning glances. A few of them had dismounted their horses and were obviously planning to jump the stream to get to her.

Right, that was it. 

There was no way she was going to get caught like this. Helpless on her back. That was not who she was. There was a reason that she was really good at being a mercenary -independent military contractor, her arse-. She just refused to lay down and die. In any circumstance. Barring the one that had just happened, of course. No-one survived a three hundred foot drop. Unless it was suddenly transformed into a less than twenty foot drop, of course. She still wasn’t sure how the hell that had happened. 

Sabra quickly clicked loose the waistband and chest-band of her backpack and sat up with a hiss, pulling her arms from the padded arm-straps. Her back and ribs protested severely against the sudden movements. Pain shot through her body like a ricocheting bullet; up and down and from side to side. She groaned as she stood up, slightly bent at the waist, and turned around. Her rifle was hanging loosely at her side, but it was, as always in a volatile situation, at the ready.

She placed her feet at the same width as her shoulders, relaxing her stance so she had a better balance, putting her right foot a bit more forward than her left foot. Outward, she looked relaxed and open, but her defences were up and the adrenaline coursing through her body, made everything seem a lot sharper and louder than it actually was. She could feel a bead of sweat trickling down in between her breasts, as she silently waited for whatever was about to happen. 

The weather was noticeably warmer here than where she’d come from. So much warmer, even, that it felt like summer, compared to the below freezing temperatures of the Afghan mountains. It made her, in her winter tactical suit and winter jacket, feel like she was in a sauna… And she detested sauna’s. They were too damn stuffy and damp.

Two of the men had jumped the brook and came closer, their body language hesitant and their hands at their sides, hovering over…

Were those… _Swords_?!

In her surprise she dropped the nuzzle of her rifle downwards. Did she land next to some weird role-playing troupe?

And why were they so short? They were just as short as she was. Usually she had to look up when in the presence of men. And most women, too. Standing at just a half inch short of five feet, she was short as fuck. And so were the two men who were approaching her.

One of them had long reddish blond hair, a beard and and an impressive moustache, which ended in braids. He looked to be end twenties, just like his companion, who had dark brown shoulder length hair and a few days stubble on his jaw.

The blond one approached her and before she knew it, he was in her personal space, eyes narrowed as he observed the balaclava that obscured her face. Shit, he was too close for her to use her rifle. She slowly dropped the heavy weapon to the ground and let her hands slide up to her sides, crossing her arms over her chest as she fingered the karambit knives in their sheaths, clicking the safeties loose. One wrong move, and the man would be down.

As the man silently observed her, she watched from the corner of her eye as his companion toed the melting snow with his boot, giving it a kick when he deemed it safe to do so.

‘It really is snow!’ He called back to his group, the tone of his voice full of wonder and a delighted laugh escaping him. There were a few very surprised faces in the crowd, she saw, as she kept the group in sight by side-eying them sharply.

‘How is that possible?’ One of the men, who was still on horseback, questioned.

‘It’s quite confounding.’ The dark haired man said with a grin. ‘Oh, well.’ He shrugged and kicked the snow again, then bending down to touch it. ‘Cold enough.’ Was his conclusion.

‘Foul magic!’ someone called out. ‘Dark Witchcraft!’ Another yelled. Sabra heard the sound of steel sliding over leather as a sword was pulled from its sheath.

She had been contemplating the idea that these men were LARP-ers, until she heard the sound of real steel swords being drawn, by most of the men on the horses. Horses who looked more like big, overly hairy, ponies; who were decked out in authentic looking riding gear. Ridden by men who seemed quite a bit shorter than average -with the exception of the old man with the pointy hat who sat on the bigger horse; he was tall-. Men whose clothing and weapons looked too detailed and worn to belong to a group of LARPers. Not to mention the smell coming off of the man who was standing in front of her, still observing her clothing. She wrinkled her nose at smelling the sweat and musk of a male body that hadn’t seen a bath in too long. This all was way too realistic to be a bunch of grown men playing at make-belief. 

Did she travel back in time, somehow? To the middle ages?

Or, was she dead after all? Was this some sick idea of purgatory, or something? Not that she believed in that nonsense, but her mind flitted over all the possibilities. She was in too much pain to consider this being heaven. 

So, what the _fuck_ was this?

She was pulled out of her thoughts when the blond in front of her started poking at the glock, which was attached to her right hip.

With a lightning fast movement, the curved karambit knives were out of their sheaths and in her hands, her index fingers going through the holes at the bottom end of the handle. The knife in her right hand twirling out around her finger and stopping just a millimetre from his nose. His eyes crossed to see the weapon that was pointed at him, missing the other knife, in her left hand, which swung toward his neck, halting just before she severed his carotid artery.

A loud shout was heard from one of the men in the group. It sounded very worried.

She heard people jumping from their horses, splashing through the stream towards them as they shouted for her to drop her weapons.

‘No. Touching.’ She growled at the blond, her tone low. She forced him to take a step back with pressure from the knives.

His blue eyes flew to her grey ones at hearing the feminine tone in her voice.

‘What?’ Surprise tinged the tone of his whisper.

Suddenly there was a very real looking, very pointy, and very sharp sword pushing up against her neck, from behind her.

Shit! How had she missed someone sneaking up on her like that? The dent she’d left in the ground must have rattled her brain a bit more than she thought. Otherwise the one at her back hadn't stood a chance.

In spite of her dizziness and the pain in her body, her instincts took over. She pulled both her knives away from the blond man, putting a foot against his chest as she hooked one of her knives onto the sword. She pushed off from his chest, forcing him a few steps back, pushing the sword from her at the same time and twirled away, out of its reach.

It happened so fast, that she was behind the man with the sword within seconds, finding a weakness in his leather armour, just under the armpit, and pushing her knife up, halting it when she pricked the skin and made the man freeze and drop his sword. The other knife found its way to his neck, exerting just enough pressure to slice off a few grey hairs from his braided beard. This man was even shorter that she was, and it was quite handy that she could see over his grey haired head. This one's body odour wasn't great, either. Urgh.

She stepped back and forced the man to step with her by putting pressure on the knives.

‘Dori!’ One of the men shouted. He had a really strange, braided, triple mohawk on his head -The _fuck?_ Were his eyebrows really braided into his hair?

‘I’m alright.’ The man in front of her said with a sort of -Scottish?- accent. He was almost a bit too relaxed under the threat he was facing. This puzzled Sabra. Had he no fear?

The group of men seemed frozen as she backed up a bit more. And for the second time that day, the ground fell away beneath her. This time it wasn’t an abyss, but a bit of a pothole in the, over all, even, grassy ground. With an undignified squeak, she tipped backwards… once again… Oh how she couldn’t wait for this day to be over… And fell flat on her arse, causing a flash of pain to travel up her spine and making her see black spots… Again. She groaned in pain.

While she was disoriented, the entire group of short males sprung into a flurry of action. Two pulled the grey haired man away from her and made sure he was okay.

Two others grabbed her arms and pushed them down so she couldn’t use her knives. 

She was now flat on her back and kicking out with her legs, trying to hit anything within reach. To her satisfaction, she heard at least two pained, male grunts, but then, within seconds, she was subdued; her legs were pushed down, against the ground, just like her arms. She was star fishing all the way. That didn’t mean she didn’t struggle anymore, though. Let the arseholes work for it.

Fuck, that fall had really messed up her equilibrium. If she’d been at full capacity, she would have taken at least six down with her. 

These men were wicked strong, though. She had to give them that. Broad and sturdy fellows, despite their shortness. Their hands were like steel bands on her arms and legs.

Another sword appeared at her throat. 

‘Drop the knives.’ Sounded a deep and authoritative voice.

When she hesitated, the sword pushed through her skin and she could feel a trickle of blood seep into the neck of her shirt. This man meant business. She couldn’t see, from the balaclava that had slipped out of place and had covered her eyes, but the tone of his voice left no room for negotiations.

Sabra grunted in frustration as she relaxed her hands. She could feel the knives being slipped from her fingers. One of the men mumbled something admiringly about the make and shape of the weapons before she heard him walking off with them.  _Fuck!_

The sword was removed from her throat, and she breathed a little easier.

She was searched for other weapons and those were taken too. Even the glock. Damnit. She had hoped that they wouldn’t recognise it as a weapon, seeing as they only had swords and whatnot.

The balaclava -and with it, her beanie- was pulled from her head, giving her sweaty face a bit of room to breathe and cool off. The air felt heavenly on her flushed skin, and she took a deep, steadying breath. Which she immediately regretted. Her ribs protested even more now she had fallen down for a second time. Not to mention that freaking smell coming from the group that was now stood around her. She tried to breathe through her mouth, just to keep from being overwhelmed by the stench.

Lots of pairs of eyes stared down at her in several different stages of shock and surprise.

‘It’s a boy! It’s just a boy!’

‘And still so young!’

Sabra was confused by their outcries. And even a bit miffed if she was honest. She wasn’t a boy. Had they never seen a woman?

The blond man cleared his throat loudly, and the men fell silent.

‘It’s not a boy.’ He said with twinkling eyes, gesturing with his hands in front of his chest. ‘Definitely not a boy…’

His dark haired companion stared at Sabra, narrowing his eyes.

‘But, where’s the hair gone? Women don’t have short hair. That one’s hair is all shorn off.’

He was right. Sabra kept her hair in a very short buzzcut. It helped with keeping clean on missions and spared her the hassle of keeping longer hair tidy all the time. Her dark brown hair was only just beginning to grow out, after she’d clipped it last, a week ago.

‘Look at all the jewellery in her ears and her nose! Look! A gold stud in her nostril. She’s married.’

Wait, _what_? She wasn’t married. How did they come to that freaking stupid conclusion?!

‘I think she’s of the race of men, they have other customs than we do. She doesn’t _have_ to be married, you know.’

Right he was. No men in her life… Lately…

‘Why does she have a ring through her septum?’

‘Look, she has so many piercings in her ear cartilage. It’s like she’s a Dwarrowdam.’

_Whuh?_ Sabra blinked in confusion.

‘She isn’t a Dwarrowdam, she doesn’t have a beard, and her ears are too small. Bilbo, is she a Hobbit, maybe? She’s so short for someone from the race of men.’

Hobbit?

‘Um… No… She’s not a Hobbit. Her feet are too small and she doesn’t have pointed ears, see? All round.’ Someone lightly touched her ear and she snapped her teeth at the fingers, missing them by a hair’s breadth. The man who had spoken, looked at her as if she had quite offended him, by lashing out at him. He was smaller and slighter than the other men and his ears were pointed, as he’d pointed out. _Heh… Pointed out…_

But… Like... a Hobbit?

_Hobbit?!_

‘Don’t. Fucking. Touch. Me!’ She ground out between clenched teeth, thrashing in the men’s hold again while her brain was working at top speed through all the far-fetched scenario’s it was coughing up.

Wait, had that man called him… Bilbo?

As in, _The Hobbit_ , Bilbo? 

All those short and bearded men… Her brain couldn’t quite compute what her eyes were seeing.

And that grey cloaked arsehole, with the grey pointy hat, with eyes that were even older than his appearance let one believe, which were laughing at her as she lay there gazing up at him…

Oh, hell, no… This wasn’t really happening. She must be going nuts. Or she was really, utterly, dead, and suspended in some kind of crazy limbo... place.

_Well, in for a penny, in for a pound,_ she thought. _Ride the insanity train all the way to heaven… Or wherever…_

She smiled up at the grey cloaked man, who raised an eyebrow at her, undoubtedly, deranged grin.

‘Hello there, Gandalf.’ she said sweetly to the suddenly flabbergasted looking wizard, a hysterical giggle escaping her mouth.

_What was that?!_ She never giggled. She wasn’t the giggling kind. _What the Fu…_

Then everything went black.


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Questions, Answers, and More Questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing.
> 
> I make no money with this story.
> 
> This is my Sandbox.

**Chapter 2**

 

_Monday, 27 April. The East Road, just before noon, 9 miles east of Hobbiton, the Shire._

 

The first thing to come back to her, was her hearing. She heard the wind in the trees, and the chittering of different birds, against the background of deep voices muttering to each other. It was a quite relaxing sound.

Then her smell returned. 

Oh. How she regretted that. It was not the smell of the land that had her trying to hold her breath. The air was fresh and damp and smelled earthy, like grasses and forests. She could even take the smell of warm horses. It was the smell that wafted past her that she wasn’t too fond of. The sweat and musk of males who hadn’t seen water and soap for way too long. It made her slightly queasy. Or maybe that was the pounding headache behind her eyes and the pain in her neck.

To say that her brain felt like it was being bashed in with hammers, over and over again, was an understatement. She realised that she was sitting upright on a horse, as her body swayed from side to side with its stride. It was something that wasn’t helping with the queasiness. Or with the pain that shot up her spine and into her brain, with every step the horse took.

With effort, she forced her eyes to open. A groan escaped at the influx of light. Despite it being the soft filtered light of an overcast day. They were riding beneath some trees, shadows falling over the group, but the light hit her eyes, and her brain, with the intensity of a laser. Quickly she shut her eyes again, a hiss of pain escaping her.

The low chuckle she heard, was the same rumbling chuckle that she felt vibrating against her back, and she then realised that she was leaning against someone’s chest. Someone who was quite a bit taller than she was. _Gandalf_.

She squinted her eyes when she opened them again, and she slowly turned her head to look at him, frowning, and pulling a face from the light hitting her eyes. Which exacerbated the throbbing pain in her head.

‘Ah, you’re awake.’ He said in a pleasant voice, his tone light.

Sabra grunted something unintelligible, which pulled another chuckle from the old man sitting behind her. It didn’t improve her mood. At all.

‘Now that you are awake, might I inquire how you came by my name?’ The wizard asked, still in that pleasant tone, but Sabra heard both the curiosity and the steel underneath.

She tried to concentrate on answering him, but the swaying of the horse had her gagging.

‘I think I’m gonna be sick.’ She groaned, and tried to put her hand to her mouth. When she felt resistance, she looked down and saw that her hands were tied to a rope that was wound around her waist. ‘Oh, gods, I’m gonna throw up.’ She moaned, feeling her bile come up in her throat.

The wizard behind her, quickly grabbed the back of her winter jacket in his hands and lifted her from the saddle, as if she weighed nothing, and deposited her on her feet next to the horse. 

Sabra tried to make it to some bushes, but now that the adrenaline had left her body, her wobbly legs could only manage a few steps, before she went to her knees and threw up all the bile she had in her stomach. She felt shivery and her head pounded in time with her heartbeat. She kept retching, but there was nothing left to expel. 

From far away she heard a yell and a couple of horses galloped up the line they were traveling in.

‘Gandalf! What are you doing?!’ She heard the same deep voice from earlier ask the wizard, in an almost angry tone. 

‘Preventing my robes from becoming soiled by the contents of our prisoner’s stomach. She was about to lose her breakfast.’ Gandalf answered. ‘But it looks like it has been quite some time since she’s had any food… Or drink.’

Cold shivers went up Sabra’s spine as she tried to keep her wits about her, and sweat beaded on her forehead. Somehow she was freezing and overheating at the same time. Weird. Was she going into delayed shock? She could feel her arms and hands shaking. 

A few minutes after she’d emptied her stomach -being off the swaying horse helped, too-, she was starting to feel marginally better. Her shaking might have something to do with her not eating or drinking for at least the last eighteen hours. 

She didn’t think she had a concussion, as she didn’t have double vision and she remembered everything up to the moment she’d passed out. The pounding in her head must have something to do with her painful spine. And being dehydrated. Maybe. 

If she had been sweating like she was now, while she was unconscious, it was no wonder she was dehydrated. She needed water. And some electrolytes. If they had that here.

But first, she had to get out of this winter jacket. And out of the thermal long johns and shirt she had on under her normal tactical gear. That would go a long way in cooling her down a bit and get her body out of survival mode. It was working way too hard to try and cool her down and she was losing precious moisture at a rapid pace.

She cleared her throat and interrupted the conversation behind her. Gandalf was arguing for stopping for lunch.

‘Excuse me, could one of you please untie me? I need to take off my coat, or it’ll slowly cook me to death.’ Her voice was hoarse. She swallowed and felt how dry her throat was. ‘Please. I’m too warmly dressed for this spring weather.’ She added softly, her head bent in submission. _Best to not appear too threatening_. 

‘Fine, we will halt here for lunch.’ She heard the deep voice say to Gandalf. Someone dismounted from their horse and then a pair of ironclad boots came into her sights.

She looked up with narrowed eyes, squinting against the light that was still hurting her head. Her gaze followed the fur lined, ironclad boots, up to leather clad legs, which were covered by a kind of velvety suede tunic from the knees up, under which he wore some sort of armour. Then up, up, up, past a sleeveless, leather, fur lined coat - _Jesus, wasn’t **he**  overheating in that outfit?!_-, to a short beard and a frowning face, which was surrounded by long, dark brown hair. Before her stood a very annoyed man… Or, dwarf?… Whatever… He didn’t look happy. He was scowling at her, his expression one of irritation and distaste. 

Sabra wondered why they’d taken her with them, when their leader -at least, she thought he was… What was his name again? Shit, it had been years since she’d seen those films… Well, she’d seen half of them, if she was honest. She had to admit, she’d been more focussed on her then paramour, than on the theatre screen, on which the trilogy was playing.- was so obviously loathing her presence in their midst.

She looked up at him, pleadingly, holding out her hands, with the palms up to show her cooperation, hoping that he’d allow her to divest herself of the bulky winter gear.

With an annoyed grunt, he turned back to his horse.

‘Untie her.’ He grumbled to the reddish blond man… dwarf, who had come to stand beside him. It was the same one whom she had used her knives on.

The man… shit, she meant, _dwarf_ … grinned at her and stepped closer.

‘Now, if I untie you, you will not attack me again, will you?’ He asked, courteously.

Sabra tilted her head and frowned up at him.

‘I will not attack you, if you do not attack me.’ She stated with a hoarse voice. 

He nodded.

‘I can live with that.’

She was suddenly grabbed, from behind, by the shoulders of her coat, and hoisted up into a standing position. ‘Up you get.’ A voice said, merrily.

With a startled croak, she whirled around to face the dwarf who was standing at her back; instinctively swiping her leg at him in the same movement, and sending him tumbling to the ground. He landed with a resounding ‘oomph’.

Panting with exertion, and fighting to keep from falling to her knees again -Damn that headache for causing her to be so unbalanced-, she looked down on the dark haired dwarf. He was staring up at her in astonishment, before a delighted grin appeared on his face.

‘That was fantastic! How did you do that?’ He then looked to the blond dwarf, who had now drawn his sword and pointed it at her. ‘Did you see that, Fili?’

Sabra stepped away from the sword and held her hands up -as well as she could, seeing that they were still bound- to show she meant no harm.

‘I’m sorry, he startled me. I was reacting without thinking.’ She apologised, keeping her body language as open and unthreatening as possible. ‘It will not happen again. I promise… You don’t attack me, I don’t attack you, right?’ She pleaded; by now almost desperate to get out of the steaming hot coat and suffocating thermal clothing. 

The dark haired dwarf stood up from where he’d been lounging on the ground, and stepped towards her, hands up, to show her he wasn’t a threat.

‘Let me help you.’ He said, and he started to untie her wrists. He was fast and efficient and within seconds, her hands were free.

‘Thank you.’ She said, the corners of her mouth pulling up slightly. He grinned back, his dark eyes twinkling mischievously. 

‘You’re welcome.’ He nodded and stepped away; apparently still a bit weary of her moves.

Sabra’s hands flew to the zipper of her coat and almost tore it off, in her haste to get out of the broiling heat. She quickly took the coat off and then proceeded to pull off her body armour, tearing away at the velcro straps that held it closed at the sides. 

The sound of the velcro being loosened made the other dwarves -who were by now setting up a fire to cook lunch- startle and turn quickly towards her. _Yeah, I’ll bet you’ve never heard that sound before._ Sabra almost snickered at that thought.

She pulled the armour over her head and gently lay it down on her coat. If she was really where she thought she was, she’d need it to be in tip top shape. Better not throw it around more than she had to.

Grabbing the hem of her tactical shirt, together with the hem of her thermal shirt, she pulled the two garments up and off, leaving her in her military grade sports bra. She sighed in relief, basking in the cool air that soothed her overheated skin and flexing the muscles in her arms to get rid of any stiffness. She was happy to conclude that she didn’t break anything.

There were sudden exclamations of shock sounding all around her, and, as one, all the dwarves turned away from her; their body language showing them being very uncomfortable. Sabra just gazed at them, highly amused by their prudish behaviour.

All of them were busying themselves with anything they could find, and all were keeping their backs to her. All except one. 

The younger, dark haired one, came closer, his eyes locked on the tattoos that covered her arms and shoulders. Black and grey, in intricate geometrical patterns, wove their way up her arms from her wrists, interspersed with realistic bright pink roses and several beautifully faceted gemstones. Their colours vibrant against the black and grey of the geometrical tattoo sleeves. 

He bent over slightly and narrowed his eyes as he studied one of the gemstones, an emerald, from close up.

‘This must have been done by a Master. It is so lifelike. I have never seen anything like it. It’s like someone took real stones and magicked them into your skin.’ He sounded awed.

‘Kili!’ The blond dwarf, apparently named Fili, hissed. ‘Turn away! She is naked!’

Kili took in Sabra’s appearance and then looked back at his brother, frowning.

‘No, she isn’t.’ He protested and continued to gaze at her tattoos.

He followed the patterns as they continued from her shoulders to her back, where there was a green viper, coiled around a human skull, head up and gazing at the beholder, ready to strike. Its texture was so lifelike, with highlights on almost every scale of its body, that it looked like it was about to jump off her back.

Seeing it, he recoiled.

‘She has a _serpent_ on her back. And a _skull!_ ’ He exclaimed, visibly shaken by this discovery.

Sabra turned to him as he backed away from her, his eyes taking in the rest of her tattoos with a new sort of wariness. She raised her eyebrows at him in surprise, but then just shrugged and continued to take off more clothing. Toeing off her boots, she shoved down her trousers and thermal long johns in one go, leaving her in her socks and her boy-shorts. Basking her body in the heavenly air of a nice spring day, she was finally feeling herself again. Her headache had even lessened to a mildly annoying hum. She was glad that the pain seemed to be connected to her overheating, and not to damage to her neck or spine, as she had first feared.

She was sure she’d be sore for a few more days, but other than that, she’d be fine. Most probably. Hopefully. 

Usually she healed quite quickly, so she wasn’t afraid that the pain in her body would last longer than a few days. Unless the fall had damaged more than she was now aware of. That would most definitely suck.

Drawn from her musings by a hand closing around her bicep, painfully, she let out a gasp.

‘Hey!’ She grunted, her voice still not cooperating.

She looked up into the furious blue eyes of the Dwarf leader.

‘Are you a servant of darkness?!’ He asked, aggressively.

‘What?’ she rasped, flabbergasted.

‘Are. you. a. servant. of. darkness?!’ He shook her roughly.

‘No. What are you on about?’ Her throat hurt from talking. She needed water, and soon.

‘Why do you have its symbol on your back?… The serpent.’ He added, when he saw her questioning gaze.

‘Oh, that. The skull stands for the mortality of man, and the snake -serpent- symbolises rebirth, because it can shed its skin and start anew. At least, it does where I come from.’ She cleared her throat and tried to swallow around the desert like conditions in her mouth. To no avail, and she started to cough. Which hurt her ribs like a sonovabitch.

‘And where do you come from, that you so easily shed your clothes in the company of unknown males? Are you a whore? Do you lay with men for money?’

Her coughing stopped abruptly and she sucked in a breath. What. The. Fuuuuuu… The nerve of that man!… erm, dwarf!

‘I come from far away, I think. And no, I am no such person.’ She growled, suddenly furious. ‘I am a… a… warrior. A mercenary. I scout, and I fight, and I kill, but I do not lay with men for money. I only **_fuck_** men for _pleasure_.’ She saw his eyes widen in shock, at her crassness. Heh, served him right. ’And we don’t call them whores, by the way. They are sex-workers. It is a job. They provide a service and get paid for it. Just like… like butchers, and bakers, and thatchers, and the lot.’ She took a breath. ‘And don’t you dare look down on such women, because they would not exist if it wasn’t for you, males, wanting their services. It’s a question of supply and demand. Something you, as a trader, should understand more than anything. If you judge such women the be lower than the lowest being, then the men that lay with them are no better, and are equal to whores, themselves.’

He let her go so fast, it was as if her skin had burnt him. He took a step back, staring at her as if she had just grown two heads, his mouth opening and closing several times, before her turned around and stomped away with a growl.

Sabra frowned at his sudden retreat and then huffed a gritty chuckle.

‘Well, he doesn’t take it well when someone disagrees with him, does he?’ She said to no-one in particular, while she stepped back into her combat trousers and pulled them up, fastening the belt around her hips.

She looked up when there was nothing but silence around her, bar the birdsong and the rustling of the wind in the trees.

Each and every dwarf had turned toward her, and was gazing at her with wide eyes. 

‘What?’ She asked, defensively.

‘That is our King.’ A very young looking dwarf, with a strangely blunt haircut and bangs, whispered. He looked at her like he was a deer in headlights.

‘I don’t care if he is the god of whatever land this is. You don’t talk to people like that. It’s rude.’ She stated, and pulled on her tactical shirt, then fastened her armour back over it. She folded up her thermal gear and rolled it in her coat. 

‘Do any of you know what happened to my backpack?… My bag? I want to put my clothes away.’

The young dwarf pointed at one of the ponies. Sabra spotted her bag and made her way over to the animal, stroking it across the flank with one hand, while she unfastened her pack from the saddle with the other.

‘That is a very strange looking bag.’ Came an amused voice from her right. ‘The dwarves were very impressed by its craftsmanship.’

_Gandalf_.

She sighed as she opened her bag and stuffed her clothes into it. A quick look inside had told her that all her weapons, and ammo, were gone. Dammit.

‘It’s not that special where I am from.’ She croaked. ‘May I please have some water? I’m severely dehydrated.’

The wizard took a flask that was hanging from the saddle and gave it to her.

She uncorked it and sniffed the contents. It smelled slightly like iron, but otherwise, it didn’t smell bad. Quickly she took a sip. Yup, water. She knew she shouldn’t drink a large quantity, but she couldn’t help herself. She was so thirsty. Within seconds she’d drained the flask and given it back to Gandalf, corked and all.

He looked from her, to the flask, and back to her.

‘I hope that this will earn me the pleasure of hearing your story.’ He said, with twinkling eyes.

She looked at him sharply, and couldn’t shake the idea that he was secretly laughing at her.

‘Well,’ She said. ‘It’s not that long a story. I was in the mountains, scouting, when somebody shot at me. Which made me lose my balance. Which led to me falling to my death, from a three hundred foot high cliff. After which I landed in the grass, in front of your group, not in the mountains, not at the end of a three hundred foot drop.’

The old man hummed in thought.

‘And you saw nothing? Not a bright light, no strange beings? You were just there, and then you were here?’

She nodded.

‘I had my eyes closed. I thought I was going to die. I saw nothing. And it happened in the blink of an eye. If you ask me, I think I didn’t fall for more than ten feet. Seeing as I’m still whole.’

He leaned forward and looked deep into her eyes. As she stared back, Sabra felt like she was falling into an abyss. His eyes were ancient. She couldn’t look away.

Then he blinked and the spell was broken.

‘Curious.’ He said. ‘Very curious.’

Clearing her throat and looking back at where the dwarves were cooking some sort of broth for lunch, she took a deep breath and asked. ‘What’s curious?’

He hummed again, this time melodically.

‘Your eyes are very grey.’ 

She looked at him sharply and frowned at his evasiveness.

‘I am aware.’

He nodded.

‘Good… Good.’ He mumbled, and strolled away. Leaving Sabra with even more questions than she had before her talk with the old geezer. _Great_.


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonding with Bofur. Sort of...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing.
> 
> I make not one iota of money with this story.
> 
> This is my sandbox. I like to build castles.

**Chapter 3**

 

Behind her, the dwarves had turned back to their chores and continued with preparing the midday meal. When she turned and let her gaze wander over them, she could smell something akin chicken soup, which caused her mouth to water. Her stomach rumbled loudly and she rubbed her abdomen to quiet it down. Shit, it had been too long since she’d had anything to eat.

A loud snicker was heard from her right.

‘Ah, lassie, sounds to me like you could use some sustenance. Don’t worry, Bombur is almost finished with the broth.’

Sabra looked toward the voice and her eyes fell upon a brown haired dwarf who had braids in his hair, and a mighty moustache above a short beard adorned his face. His hat had earflaps, which pointed outwards, and it gave him a bit of a comical appearance. He was sitting against a tree and was sharpening his knife on a whetstone.

He nodded to her when he saw he had her attention.

‘I’m Bofur. The one who is stirring the broth, Bombur, is my brother.’

After tying the laces of her boots, which she had only stepped into, but not yet fastened, Sabra walked closer to him and tilted her head. She hadn’t expected to be addressed in such a casual manner after what had just happened between her and the Dwarf King. 

‘Um, I’m Sabra. Sabra Ashford.’

He raised an eyebrow at hearing her name.

‘Well, that’s a mouthful, isn’t it? Sabrasabra-ashford.’

Sabra snorted at his misunderstanding of her name and quickly shook her head.

‘No, my name is Sabra. My surname is Ashford.’

‘Sur... name?’ He sounded confused. ‘What’s that?’

What, they didn’t have surnames here? This place was becoming stranger by the second. She quickly thought on how to explain such a foreign concept to him.

‘Um… It’s like a family name? I got mine through my foster father.’

He frowned in thought and then suddenly nodded, a smile appearing on his face.

‘Ah, yes, so, that means that you are Sabra, daughter of Ashford.’

Sighing, she gave up on trying to explain how the whole naming thing worked in her world.

‘Not quite, but close enough.’ She conceded.

Bofur gave her a triumphant grin and patted the ground next to him.

‘Come, sit. Tell me more of where you’re from.’

Sabra tentatively sat down, laying her hand on the tree for support. Her muscles protested fiercely and she let out a hiss when a sharp pain shot from her lower spine to her right thigh. 

The dwarf next to her chuckled.

‘Falling from a mountain will do that for ya.’ He said as he patted her knee in a friendly gesture. ‘I remember well when I was a youngling. Used to fall from high things a lot. Only way to learn, though…’ He mused.

‘The only way to learn what?’ She asked, curious.

He chuckled.

‘Well, how not to fall off of high things, of course.’ 

Snickering, Sabra threw him a sideways glance.

‘Of course.’ 

His brown eyes twinkled mischievously.

‘Dwarf children are quite hard-headed. They’re not easily deterred from high places; thus they have to learn not to fall.’

Sabra hummed in thought.

‘The children are not the only hard-headed ones in the race of dwarves, I suspect.’ She countered, following the figure of the King with her eyes, as he stalked towards Gandalf through the dwarves’ makeshift camp.

Bofur let out a laugh when he followed her gaze, and winked at her.

‘You could be very right about that, lass.’

He agilely jumped up from his perch and looked at her.

‘You stay put. I will get us some broth and bread.’

Nodding, Sabra smiled at him and then let her gaze wander back to where the King was talking to Gandalf. Or talking _at_ Gandalf. At least, that is what it looked like from where she was sitting. He was talking while Gandalf listened. Gandalf was leaning on his staff with a patient expression on his face. When the King was done talking, the wizard answered him with only a few words. Which made the King talk more, while gesturing wildly and then pointing right at _her_ without looking in her direction. 

The wizard shook his head and answered the King. What he’d said must have shocked the King greatly, because he went stock still as he gaped at Gandalf. He said something more, which made the wizard shrug, and then nod, as he turned his gaze towards where Sabra was sitting. The King followed his example and his dark blue eyes met her grey ones over the heads of the group of reclining dwarves. His eyes widened in surprise when he found her looking his way and then a mighty scowl fell over his face. 

Sabra held his gaze with a mighty scowl of her own. There was no way that she’d let herself be intimidated by a grumpy dwarf, no matter how much royal blood might flow through his veins.

Suddenly a wooden bowl, filled with soup, hovered in front of her eyes, cutting off her face off -stare off?- with the King.

‘Here yeh go, lass. Eat up.’ Bofur said merrily. He handed her a big chunk of bread and a wooden spoon to go with the bowl. She took all three items from him and murmured a ‘thanks’, before digging in. 

When she was done eating, she’d polished off the soup -which did have some kind of bird meat in it-, her bread, and a big chunk of Bofur’s bread. He’d offered it to her when he saw how hungry she was, assuring her that he’d had quite a feast the night before and didn’t really need to eat the bread to feel full. She’d accepted it from him with a grateful smile. 

Feeling better by the minute -now that she’d had at least a pint of water, the salty broth and its filling contents, and the bread-, Sabra let out a contented sigh; closing her eyes and leaning back against the tree. She could feel how the food flooded her system with new energy and burnt away some of the pain and discomfort left behind from her fall. Her headache was all but gone.

‘You’re looking more lively by the minute, lass. The food is doing you good. You no longer look like death warmed over.’ The dwarf next to her remarked.

A snicker escaped her at his bluntness.

‘Aw, Bofur, you really know how to make a woman feel good about herself, don’t you?’ She rolled her head to the side and opened her eyes, so she could look at him.

Bofur looked at her from the side of his eyes, a slight smile playing on his lips.

‘I happen to be a great success with the lasses, where I’m from.’ He said in a jokingly dignified tone. 

‘I’ll bet you are.’ Sabra concurred, laughter in her voice. 

He turned to her, an inquisitive expression on his face.

‘And you?’

She narrowed her eyes at him, her lips trembling with a suppressed smile.

‘What? Am I a success with the lasses where I’m from?’ She rubbed her chin with her fingers in thought. ‘I don’t think so… The men however… That’s another story.’ She winked at him humorously.

He barked out a laugh and slapped a broad hand on her shoulder to convey his mirth. She could barely suppress a grunt at the power behind the friendly gesture that made her bones rattle. In spite of their short stature, these dwarves were wicked strong. It was good that she was built of sturdy stuff, otherwise she would have been sprawled out on her face, on the ground.

‘I like you, lass. You have spirit.’ He exclaimed, still laughing at her naughty jest.

A shadow fell over them and they both looked up to see the King standing there, scowling down at them.

‘Stop your frivolous wenching, Bofur, and help with packing up. We have many more miles to cover before nightfall.’

The smile fell from Bofur’s face and he nodded, frowning at being told off by the dwarves’ leader. He stood and took the bowl and spoon from Sabra, throwing her a small grin and a wink when his back was turned to the King. She struggled to keep her face serious, well aware that the King was still scowling at her.

Then Bofur scurried off to the others, helping them clean the crockery and then pack up the ponies.

Refusing to not be on even footing with the King, Sabra quickly stood up. It was the second time this day that she found herself sitting at his feet and that would just not do. She was proud of the limber way she rose to her feet. The food and the hour of rest must have done her more good than she’d thought. Her muscles still protested, but she was able to push through it, and gracefully came to stand almost toe to toe with the group’s leader. Answering his scowl with one of her own.

‘Don’t think I didn’t hear you calling me a whore, _again_ , with that remark you threw at Bofur.’ She said, gritting her teeth. She knew what wenching was, and the fact that she was the only woman in Bofur’s vicinity, made her the so-called recipient of his wenching ways, or so the King had insinuated. _Arsehole_. ‘You should really work on your people skills. Being an arsehole king will get you dethroned, fast. Where I come from, people beheaded the kings they didn’t like.’ She gave him a toothy smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

The dwarf in front of her froze and his scowl became even worse as his eyes burned with an almost mad rage. 

‘You are but a child. You know not of what you speak.’ His voice was flat and devoid of all emotion and somehow that was scarier than if he’d blown up in her face. She was almost expecting him to drive a dagger between her ribs.

Sabra met his eyes evenly, suppressing the need to swallow nervously. Did she hit a nerve? She tried to remember what she knew of that first movie, because, by now, she’d concluded that the dwarves, and Bilbo, and Gandalf, had only just started their journey. She was still convinced that she was in some kind of mental limbo while being in a coma, or she was dead and this was her own personal purgatory. 

She had never even read any of the books by Tolkien, and didn’t remember much of the movies, so, how the hell had her subconscious dreamt this world up?! Earlier, she had decided to go with the flow, because there was no other option. She’d tried to wake herself up, and all she got, were a couple of bruises on her arms, from where she’d pinched herself.

Right, back to the situation at hand…

Wasn’t there some sort of dwarven war in the past of this world? With… um… orcs, or something equally monstrous. Weren’t they fighting for one of the dwarven kingdoms?

_Oh… Oh, shit._

She remembered that big white monster. He’d beheaded the King’s… Father? Grandfather? It was a close relation. She remembered that. _Fuck. Talk about faux-pas…_

She wasn’t so pigheaded that she wouldn’t apologise when she realised she made a mistake. So she did.

‘I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.’ She said with a clear voice. No need to cower and whisper when admitting to a mistake. At least, not in her mind. When she made a mistake, she owned up to it and carried the consequences of her actions, or words. The expression on her face was apologetic as she inclined her head to him.

The rage in his eyes was replaced with surprise, before his expression hardened again.

‘Don’t let that happen again.’ He growled. Turning away from her, he added, almost as an afterthought, ‘And stop seducing my dwarves.’ 

Instead of becoming angry at his refusal to see her as anything other than a prostitute, she burst out laughing at the preposterousness of the situation .

‘I can’t promise that. They’re a _real_ attractive bunch. And their body odour is also _so_ very pleasing.’ She snickered, her tone indicating the opposite of what she’d said.

With a huff and a grumble, the dwarf stalked away, to see to his horse.

She followed him with her gaze while Bofur came to stand beside her.

‘So, do you want to ride with me for the afternoon? I’d like to hear some more about where you came from.’ 

Sabra hummed absentmindedly as she spotted something moving on the ground near where the King and his horse were standing.

Before she had time to think, her instincts kicked in and she was moving. Bofur’s sharp dagger was out of his belt and in her hand before he had even processed her being in motion. When he cried out in alarm and grabbed for her, she spun around him and the dagger was out of her hand, burying itself deeply into the ground from the force with which it was thrown, not and inch from the King’s left foot.

She had only a split second to confirm hitting her mark, before she was thrown to the ground and buried under about four dwarves - _Shit, they’re heavy-_ , while the rest had grabbed their weapons and pointed them at her.

‘Why did you have to do that, lass? I was just starting to like you.’ Bofur lamented with a grunt, next to her ear. He was the bottom dwarf of the four who had decided it would be a good idea to take her out by using their bodyweight, and he was apparently feeling the weight of the others pressing down on him, just like she was.

Another dwarf growled,

‘You just had to go for our King, when you saw your chance, didn’t you, witch?’

‘Are you crazy?!’ She croaked indignantly, as she tried to wheeze in a few breaths of oxygen. ‘Get off me, you… you over-enthusiastic bodyguards! If I’d wanted him dead, he’d be dead! Ten times over. _Fucking morons_!’ She slapped her still free hand to the mossy ground in frustration. The other was caught underneath her stomach, pinned down by her own weight, and that of four dense dwarves. Dense, in more ways than one. Their stature didn’t even remotely reflect how heavy they really were. What were those idiots made of, lead?

‘End her!’ One of the dwarves above Bofur exclaimed. The others stepped forward and brought the pointy ends of their weapons a bit too close to her neck for Sabra’s liking. She grunted another expletive and stared defiantly up at the group who were now so actively contemplating relieving her body from her head. Hm, she should be more careful with what she said to people, Karma was always listening, it seemed.

‘Wait,’ A melodic, calm voice said. ‘Look what she did.’ Everyone turned their heads towards Bilbo and then looked to where he was pointing. 

The knife she’d thrown had severed the black head of a long dark brown snake from its body. Its mouth was wide open and its very sizeable fangs were pointed down and outwards. It had been poised to strike when she’d ended its life.

One by one, the dwarves got up and Sabra could breathe a little easier. As she scrambled to stand up, she heard a few surprised grunts coming from the dwarves.

The group of dwarves made their way to their King and all of them stared disbelievingly at the dead snake that lay at his feet. 

Sabra took a few deep breaths to counter the dizziness she felt after almost being crushed to death and leaned against a tree, observing the flurry of excitement surrounding the King from a safe distance. 


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Horses don't agree with Sabra and it puts her in a foul mood.
> 
> \-------------
> 
> This chapter is unedited. I just wanted to get it out there. So... There you go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing but my OCs and part of this storyline.
> 
> I make no money with this story.
> 
> This is my Sandbox. I like building castles. :)

**Chapter 4**

 

‘That’s not possible… She… She must have been over twelve yards away. How did she hit _anything_ with that botched knife of Bofur’s at twelve yards? The thing isn’t even well balanced… And hitting a moving target with this kind of accuracy?… It’s near impossible!’ Fili exclaimed as he looked from the dead snake -serpent- to Sabra, and then back to the reptile again. The expression on his face was a mix of awe and suspicion.

One of the dwarves -he had long auburn hair and a mighty beard; he was the one who had earlier demanded her demise- began his litany again.

‘It’s witchcraft I say. She is a witch! Darkness is her master. We must not suffer her to live!’ He unsheathed a long dagger and waved it around dangerously. He was going to put someone’s eye out if he wasn’t careful… Sabra winced when the pointy end of the weapon slashed through the air right past the face of one of the other dwarves. The dwarf leaned away from the offending object with a loud ‘Hey!’.

This was getting really old, really fast. Sabra crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the irate dwarf who was wielding the dagger, but kept quiet. She wasn’t stupid. If she protested too much, the tide may turn against her and she would be up shite creek sans a paddle… Well, even more than she already was. These dwarves were not to be trifled with, she’d seen the battle axes and knife arsenals they carried on their person. Considering the visible wear on the metal, she’d concluded that the weapons were not for show.

Fuck, she missed her knives. She fingered the empty spaces next to her ribs where their sheaths used to be. The fuckers had taken her knife holsters, too, when they had taken her weapons. She lamented the day that she’d decided to wear her holsters on top of her coat, instead of underneath it.

The King frowned at the dead beast that lay at his feet and then looked up to meet her eyes. After narrowing his eyes and focussing his gaze on her for a couple of seconds, as if he was trying to determine the motives behind her actions, he inclined his head to her, minutely. If she’d blinked, she’d have missed it. Then he turned away and mounted his horse.

‘We are leaving.’ He said to the dwarves when he was seated in his saddle. His voice was stern and it was clear that he would not tolerate any objections to his decision. ‘Gloin, our new companion needs a mode of transportation. Give her your packhorse to ride.’

The redheaded dwarf, who was still pointing his dagger at Sabra, gaped at his King.

‘What?’ He was completely taken aback and he opened his mouth to say something more, when a warning glare from the King cut him off. The dwarf closed his mouth with a snap, grumbling under his breath.

Sabra herself wasn’t faring any better on the surprise front. _What the…?_ How the hell had she gone from _servant of darkness_ and _whore_ , to ‘new companion’… Within the course of an hour?!

She put her hands on her hips and warily stared after the dwarf King, who had, by now, once again taken to riding at the head of their small caravan, while his subjects scrambled to reach their own horses and fell in line behind him. One by one, they rode off, until there was only Sabra left standing on the grassy border beside the ‘road’ through the woods. Well, she, _and_ the dagger wielding dwarf whom the King had called Gloin. The dwarf glared darkly at her as he stomped to his packhorse; unloading a few packages from the beast and tying them to the saddle of his own horse. Then he grabbed the reins of the packhorse and threw them her way just as she walked up to him. He did not care where they landed, apparently, because the leather straps slapped her in the face. Hard. Leaving a painful welt on her cheek. 

Rubbing her cheek, she glared after the dwarf, who had already mounted his horse and galloped after the group. _Motherfucker_. 

The sturdy packhorse stood calmly next to her; now and then nibbling on the grass at her feet. She looked at the animal and then turned her head towards the group of dwarves, focussing on where they had disappeared between the trees. She could still faintly hear their voices.

Right. Time to catch up… 

Or… Maybe she could go the other way? She looked back the way they’d come. If she could reach the Hobbit town Bilbo was from… Maybe they could help her… But what would she do there? She had no purpose here, in this world. She had no money. No income. The only thing she was really good at, was reconnaissance and shooting guns; she was a markswoman, a sniper. A mercenary. The need to fight, to make a difference in the world, it was in her blood, it burned deep inside her. Always had, always would. 

She didn’t think her talents would be appreciated by the peace loving Hobbits, though. Which left her no other choice than to follow those fucking stubborn dwarves on their quest. Maybe she could find a place here, somewhere on this godforsaken plane of existence, where she would be able to build a life for herself… When she found the place she could call home, she would stay behind and leave the dwarves to finish their foolish quest on their own.

She had no idea how she’d ended up in this world, other than the coma or purgatory theories, and she had absolutely no idea how to get back to her own world. So, she concluded, all she _could_ do, was take the path that led to some sort of future for her. A path which she suspected lay with a company of dwarves at that exact moment.

‘Alright. Onwards we go.’ She muttered to herself, desperately hoping that she hadn’t chosen the wrong path to follow.

Sighing, she moved around a few of the packages on the horse’s back, creating a place to park her bum. The animal didn’t have a saddle like the other horses, so she had to improvise. Eventually, she had seated herself on a small section of the blanket on the horse’s back, and was surrounded by packages of food and crockery. She grabbed the horse’s reins and gently kicked its sides to encourage it to start walking. 

Which it didn’t.

‘oh, _come on_.’ Her voice a frustrated whine, as she kicked the horse a bit harder. 

Still it ignored her. As it did the third and fourth kicks. All it did was lift its head from where it had been grazing and look at her… With a very annoyed expression. How an animal could convey such irritation with only one eye visible, she’d probably never figure out, but it did.

‘Fuckin’ Hell.’ Sighing, she leant over to look the horse in the left eye. ‘Look, I know I’m new at this whole horseback riding thing, but could you cut me some slack… Please… We’re lagging behind and I don’t want you, or me, to be eaten by those orc things… Or whatever those creeps are called… just because we lost our group…’ She let her voice trail off, allowing for the suggestion of imminent danger to hang in the air between them.

A shock went through the horse as its eye turned in its socket. Then it started moving. Setting off in a quick trot.

‘Well, fuck me.’ Sabra said as she bounced up and down on the horse’s back, astonishment colouring her voice. She couldn’t believe that that had worked. A bark of incredulous laughter escaped her. 

As soon as the horse had caught up with the group, it changed its trot into a languid stride, to match the other horses’ gaits. Sabra was very grateful for the more sedate pace, because the bouncing had been funny at first, but after a minute or two, she’d felt every bone jarring bump of her bum hitting the horse’s back. It reminded her that, no matter how good she’d felt after an hour of rest and a bowl of soup, her body was still recovering from her fall… and landing.

The dwarves at the back of the group only briefly looked back at her when she rejoined their procession. She could see a few hands checking their weapons, but other than that, there was no outward sign that they distrusted her. They just let her be. Ignoring her presence seemed to be the flavour of the moment. 

Quite a few hours passed uneventfully, and the over all mood of the group was upbeat. Sabra kept quiet and observed the group dynamics from her place in the back. The slow, monotonous travel didn’t bother her, but the relief that Sabra had at first felt at the calm, languid stride of her horse, had been replaced by a silent but fierce cursing of whoever had thought it a good idea to use horses as transportation. It was madness. Pure madness!

Groaning, she moved her weight from her right butt cheek to her left butt cheek, trying to give the former some reprieve from the hard surface she was sitting on. Taking into account that it was a living animal she was sitting on, she’d have thought that it would feel a bit softer than it did. It was like sitting on a moving wooden bench. No wonder that her traveling companions all had saddles under their bums. She wouldn’t be surprised if those saddles were filled with soft cushioning. The dwarves looked so comfortable on their horses. _Fuckers._

Sabra darkly stared at the merry group that rode in front of her. They even had the energy to talk and laugh with one another. Because they definitely did _not_ have a chafing bum, and neither had they painfully raw feeling inner thighs. _Fuckers!_

About half an hour later, just as Sabra was contemplating mass murder, the dwarves stopped their horses, grouping around their leader, who was dismounting his steed. They had reached a clearing in the forest that held two stone fire pits, surrounded by several tree stumps and logs. It looked like this was the final destination for the day. The light of day had been replaced by a hazy dusk. Twilight hour was upon them. Time to set up camp.

Sabra let her horse trudge up to the rest of the horses and dismounted at the same time as the others. It didn’t go as graceful as she’d hoped it would, though. As soon as her feet hit the ground, her knees buckled and she only kept upright because she was still holding on to the rope that held the blanket in its place on the horse’s back. She hissed at the pins and needles feeling that spread through her legs and bum. Fuck, that hurt. 

When she was certain that her legs would be able to support her, she let go of the rope. Leaning against the horse’s flank, she shook first her left leg, and then her right, trying to get feeling back into them. She hissed an expletive when the pain only got worse. 

A familiar chuckle sounded from her left.

‘Havin’ trouble with walkin’, lass?’ Bofur asked from beside his own horse, flashing her a grin.

Scrunching up her face, she frowned at him.

‘Fuck off.’ She was in no mood to cater to his stupid humorous whims.

His grin only got wider and he held up his hands in fake surrender.

‘Hey now, lass. No need to bite my head off just because yer not used to riding a horse.’

Her scowl only got worse and she bared her teeth at him.

‘Do you have a death-wish?’ She ground out; finally, after a day of fucked up incident after fucked up incident, she was at the end of her patience.

Bofur raised his eyebrows at her, still grinning, and clearly amused by his own unfamiliarity with her unusual stringing together of words.

‘A… death. wish? No, lass. Can’t say that I have a wish to die.’

‘Then I would advise you that you shut your mouth and remove yourself from my presence.’ 

He laughed at her. He actually laughed. As in, having fun. It wasn’t mocking. It was honest amusement.

‘Lass, I get the distinct feeling that yer lookin’ for a fight. But I’m going to have to disappoint. I’m not going to fight with ya. If ye really need to let off some steam, go hit a tree or somethin’, ‘cause all I’m interested in right now, is a warm meal, and a good nights sleep.’ He clapped a heavy hand on her shoulder and gently shook her, giving her an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry about the almost crushing you, this afternoon.’

And with that, he walked away, whistling, leaving behind a still fuming Sabra. She grumbled under her breath and fastened her horse’s reins to a low hanging branch. Then she stalked off, into the woods, determined to find something to kick. 

It took her a few laps of pacing in a circle around the camp, just out of sight of the dwarves, and throwing a few rocks at trees, but, eventually, she got a hold on her temper again. Losing her temper like that didn’t happen to her often; she normally was much more in control of herself, and she suspected that the very unusual day had something to do with her outburst of murderous rage. 

On her third round circling the camp, she became aware of the sound of running water. Being the inquisitive person she was, she followed the trickling sound and ended up at a shallow brook that meandered its way through the woods. It was, maybe, only ten feet wide and couldn’t have been more than two or three feet deep at its deepest point, but Sabra was eternally grateful for the crystal clear water that flowed merrily over the mossy stones beneath the brook’s surface. 

With a quick look around, to confirm that no dwarves, hobbit or nosy wizard had followed her out to the water, she started to divest herself of her clothing. It had been over three days since she’d last seen a shower, and she wasn’t going to pass up this opportunity to get clean. Who knew how long it would be before she’d get a chance like this again. In contrast to the males in the company, who were apparently comfortable with stinking up the woods like nobody’s business, she was very fond of bathing and cleanliness. Mind you, she could go without if the situation called for it, she’d been trained to go without a lot of things if the situation called for it, but she preferred to wash off the dusty and sweaty film from her skin at the end of a reconnaissance mission. And she wouldn’t let the fact that her shower would be a cold bath in a shallow stream, in the middle of a gloomy forest that was becoming darker by the second, stand in the way of washing off the sweat and dirt of the day.

Gasping at the icy temperature of the water, she stepped into the brook, taking her knickers and sports bra with her. They could do with a wash after being worn continuously for over seventy-two hours.

Carefully, she felt with her feet where to step on the slippery rocks. It wouldn’t do for her to take another tumble today. She had enough bruises as it was. 

Slowly, she made her way to the middle of the brook, where there seemed to be a natural pool. Leaning on a rock that was sticking out above the waterline, she stepped into the pool. It was quite a step down, and when her feet touched the rocks at the bottom, she was submerged up to her waist.

Shivering, she placed her knickers and bra on the rock next to the pool. Taking a deep breath, she lowered herself until the water closed over her head. Fuck! That was cold. Quickly, she rubbed her face, neck, and the stubble on top of her head with her hands, washing off all the grime that had accumulated there over the past few days.

Relaxing her body, she allowed herself to half float, half kneel under the surface of the pool. She could feel how her body started to get used to the frigidity of the water. The shivering subsided almost completely and she felt very refreshed, as if the water flowing past her, took away all the worries that weighed on her. She opened her eyes and saw how milky beams of light fell through the surface of the clear water and danced over the mossed stones on the bottom of the pool, turning the body of water she was suspended within into a surreal, greenish tinted world. It was an almost magical sight and a strange and unusual peace came over her, making her wish she could stay down there forever.

Unfortunately, her lungs started screaming for air after about a minute and a half and she broke through the surface, standing up from where she’d been kneeling in the pool and taking in big gulps of oxygen. She’d stayed under a lot longer than was sensible. Especially now that she discovered that it was already dark. Twilight only lasted minutes here, it seemed. Thankfully, moonlight fell through clearings between the treetops and lighted up the water around her, turning it into a ribbon of molten silver. It made it easier to make out her surroundings under the canopy of the, by now, pitch black forest.

Hastily, she finished her ablutions and washed her underwear, choosing not to put it on and wear both items wet beneath her clothes. Hopefully, she’d be able to dry them by the fire tonight. That way, she’d have clean, dry knickers to wear in the morning. It sounded much more appealing than having to wear the cold, wet underthings through the night.

She waded out of the water and dried off as well as she could with her wet knickers and her hands. It couldn’t be helped that she had to wrestle herself into her shirt and trousers, the leftover water on her skin making it very difficult to get them on. She decided to forego her woollen socks to prevent small sticks and stones to become entangled in them, and stepped into her boots with her bare feet, after dusting them off as well as she could. Quickly, she fastened the laces on her boots and pulled on her body-armour.

Underwear and socks in hand, she started to walk back to where she could see the distant orange glow of a campfire. Muted voices and laughter met her ears the moment she stepped between the trees, accompanied by the smell of pipe smoke. Only, the pipe smoke was much more potent than it should have been. Which meant that someone was close by. Very close by.

Immediately, Sabra’s senses were on high alert and she went very still, not even breathing, as she scanned her surroundings with her ears and eyes. From the corner of her right eye she saw the tip of a pipe glow up in the dark, illuminating a face from below for a fraction of a second. Then it was dark again and she could only see the outlines of a man leaning against a tree.

Sabra whirled towards the figure, automatically widening her stance and lowering her centre of gravity, balancing on the balls of her feet and bringing up her hands defensively.

‘If you’d stayed under water any longer, I would have gone in and hauled you out.’ The deep voice of the King vibrated through the stillness of the night.

Fuck.

‘Were you spying on me?’ She inquired; not really sure how she felt about that. ‘Afraid that I’d run off to tell on your little quest?’ She couldn’t help it, there was something about him that made her go into the offensive.

The King took another pull from his pipe, the embers lighting up his face again, and she noticed how the blue eyes beneath the furrowed brows were narrowed and focussed on her. They glinted with a cold fire as his lips let go of the pipe stalk. Then they were both shrouded in darkness again.

He blew out a billow of white smoke before he held out the hand that was not holding the pipe. 

‘I brought you your knives.’ She could just make out the leather shoulder holsters that held her curved karambit knives and the thigh holster with her long, slender Fairbairn-Sykes dagger. ‘It is not safe to be out in the open, alone. Do not wander from the group again.’ 

Sabra took the knives and the King pushed away from the tree, stalking back towards camp without another word.

She hastily walked after him, catching up with him just inside the tree line and outside the view of the dwarves who were huddled around the campfires.

‘I can handle myself, you know. I don’t need a keeper.’

With a low growl, the King turned toward her, stopping her in her tracks. Now that they were within range of the campfires, she could make out his face. He was not happy with her.

‘Whatever it is that you think you can do, and whatever it is that you think you know; it will not be enough to keep you safe. You know nothing of the horrors that roam these lands. I will not repeat myself again after this. Do. not. wander. off. alone. Understood?’ The look in his eyes was a haunted one and although he had only two or three inches on her, height wise, he still loomed over her ominously.

In spite of her instinct to full throttle go against the male dominance he was displaying, she ignored her first reaction in favour of the road of least resistance, which she thought would be best in this case. She was tired and only wanted a meal and then go to sleep. The day had been a long and arduous one for her, both physically and mentally. She needed it to be over for now. So, she nodded in acquiescence.

‘Understood.’ She said, meeting his eyes with a steely gaze. She may be agreeing to his conditions, but that didn’t mean she’d cower before him.

He stared at her for a moment longer and then nodded, apparently satisfied with her assent. Turning away from her, he made his way back to the campfires, leaving her to follow.


	6. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sabra gets her weapons back. And gets a proposition... (no, not like that! Get your mind out of the gutter!)
> 
> \----------
> 
> Again, this chapter is unedited. All mistakes are my own. I just wanted to get this out there before I went to bed. So, enjoy. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing but my OCs and the part of the storyline that does not seem familiar.
> 
> I make no money from this story.
> 
> This is my Sandbox. :)

**Chapter 5**

 

About three minutes after the King had left her standing at the tree line, Sabra strolled out of the woods and into the light of the campfires, noticing that several pairs of eyes were gazing between her and the King. The atmosphere wasn’t hostile, per se, but she caught a few facial expressions from the corner of her eyes, when the dwarves thought she wasn’t looking, and most of them ranged from very cautious, to suspicious. She wondered why that was, until she saw a few hesitant gazes travel over her holstered knives, which she’d fastened in their respective places again.

_Ah._

Looking around the campfires, she spotted her backpack leaning against an unoccupied log. A pleasant shock of surprise went through her when she saw that her glock and her rifle were precariously balanced on top of the log, together with her ballistic knives. Within a couple of strides, she reached her precious weapons and sat down beside them, first picking up the glock to check if all was in order. She made sure that the firing chamber was empty and the safety was on before she put the gun into its holster and fastened it to her right hip.

Picking up her rifle, she checked it over for damage and dirt. At first glance, it looked like all was in order, until she checked the safety. She froze. It was off. Which was not how she’d left it that morning before she’d fallen down the mountain. And the fall alone couldn’t have been responsible for the safety being turned off. It took a bit more than just flipping a switch, especially on the very dangerous rifle. Which meant… Someone had had their hands all over it. 

She checked the trigger and noticed it being a hairsbreadth compressed. A millimetre further and someone would have lost a limb… Or a head. Because the rifle was fully loaded. Frowning, Sabra looked around the group of dwarves, who had all stopped with what they were doing and were observing her handling her strange looking metal contraption.

Right. Time for some gun safety lessons.

Standing up, still holding her rifle, taking care that the barrel was pointed up to the sky, she walked to the middle of the campground and took her glock out of its holster.

‘Okay. If I could get your attention, please.’ She said loudly, looking around the camp. ‘I noticed that one or more of you have been playing with my weapons. Which was a very dumb thing to do.’ She held up her glock. ‘This is called a gun.’ Then she held out her rifle. ‘And this is called a rifle.’ Putting her glock back into its holster, she fastened the safety flap over it. ‘Both are very dangerous weapons. They fire something akin arrowheads, without the shaft attached. They come out this hollow tube.’ She indicated the barrel of the rifle. ‘And we call them bullets. The mechanism inside the rifle, and gun, fires those bullets at a very high speed. That speed is so high that you can’t see the bullet fly, unlike an arrow, which travels at a much lower speed.’ She heard someone scoff at the idea that something could travel faster than an arrow. She ignored it, for now. ‘I noticed, when I checked my rifle, that the thing that we call the _safety_ , which stops the rifle from being fired by accident, by someone who has no idea what they are doing, was turned off. Which is not how I left it. So, which of you is the incompetent fucker who turned the catch and as a result almost killed either himself or the person standing next to him?’ A few of the dwarves shuffled a bit, but other than that there was no reaction. ‘Right. Let me demonstrate.’ 

Sabra put the rifle against her shoulder, mentally weighing the pros and cons of wasting a bullet on a lesson like this, and peered through the scope to a tree, standing about ten yards away. 

‘So, this tiny handle,’ she pointed at the trigger, ‘Is called a trigger, and it was already moved by one of you. If the safety had still been on, nothing would have happened, but as it wasn’t… well… Let me show you what would have happened if you’d moved it a millimetre further.’ 

Calmly breathing in and then out, holding her breath at the end of the exhale, she very lightly squeezed the trigger. A loud gunshot echoed through the woods -she saw each and every one of the dwarves, wizard and hobbit, flinch from the noise- and at the same time, part of the tree she had aimed at exploded outwards, causing a rain of chunks of bark and wood and fine splinters, leaving a gaping hole of at least ten inches wide and six inches deep in the trunk. She lowered the rifle and looked at the shaken group of dwarves.

‘So, which one of you nosy bastards is the one who was almost blown to oblivion, today? Because, if a bullet from this rifle can do _that_ ,’ she pointed at the crater in the tree, ‘to something as hard as a tree, from ten yards away, can you imagine what it could have done to your body, or to the body of your friend, brother, or cousin, if it was fired from up close? There wouldn’t have been much left to _bury_.’ She let the threat hang in the air and turned to walk back to her seat. 

After she sat down, she looked up at the stricken males around her.

‘Let this be a lesson. If you want to live, you don’t touch my weapons. Ever.’ Glaring, she added. ‘And for the ones who still think that I’m some sort of evil incarnate. You have seen what devastation I can cause with my weapons, and yet, you are still alive. Think on that… Wait, let me rephrase that; If I had wanted you _dead_ , you _would_ be.’ 

With that, she ignored the shocked stares and flipped the rifle’s safety back on. Then she started to take out the other bullet that was still in her rifle, checked if the chamber was clean, and made sure that the weapon couldn’t be fired again, unless she was the one firing it, by taking out the firing pin and storing it in a small side pocket of her backpack. 

‘Bloody fuckin’ amateurs.’ She hissed under her breath.

Then she inhaled deeply, willing the adrenaline that now coursed through her body again to leave her system. Time to calm down, and wind down. Otherwise she wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight. Her body was teetering on the edge of energy depletion after being more or less awake for three days in a row, and she needed to recharge, asap. She couldn’t afford to lay awake for hours on end, otherwise, tomorrow would be hell. Again.

‘So.’ she said, keeping her voice as light as she could; ignoring the still silent, staring males that surrounded her. ’What’s for supper?’

The question she posed seemed to pull everyone from their confounded daze and suddenly the camp was a flurry of frantic activity. 

She pulled the cover for her rifle out of her pack and zipped it open. Just as she was about to lower the rifle into it, she felt the log she was sitting on, move. She turned to the male who had sat down next to her and saw that it was the King. He sat with his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together. His face was turned toward the fire as he stared into the flames with a pensive expression.

Sabra stared at him. Wondering if she’d gone too far with firing her rifle like she did. The King stayed quiet for quite some time, looking preoccupied with his own thoughts.

Sabra waited for him to say something, but when that didn’t happen, she hummed to herself and mentally shrugged. Okay then. She started to pack away her rifle again.

‘That… is a very impressive weapon.’ His voice suddenly sounded from beside her.

Once again, she stopped putting the rifle into its cover. This time she laid it to balance over her thighs and caressed the metal.

‘She is. She’s my baby.’ She said lovingly, admiring the familiar lines of the weapon.

A dark huff that sounded very much like a chuckle came from the direction of the King.

‘You said that it can fire projectiles faster than a bow can. How much further would that make its range?’

Sabra raised her eyebrows, impressed by the deductions the King had made based on her explanation. 

‘Quite a bit further.’ She answered.

‘How far?’ His tone was clipped. It was clear that he was curious, but was also not a man of many words.

Humming in thought, she scratched her ear.

‘If the winds are in my favour and my sight is unobstructed by trees, or houses, or hills… I can make a headshot from one and a half miles away.’

The King sucked in a sharp breath.

‘You jest!’ He sounded sceptical.

Huffing, Sabra unfastened the scope from the rifle.

‘I assure you, I do not ever jest about my abilities. I have made many kills from that distance. Look,’ She handed him the scope. ‘this is a device that places several very precisely cut lenses in a row, making it so that when you look through it, it makes things that are very far away look like they are very close by. If I know the wind direction and its strength and calculate into that the movement of my target, it enables me to make the kill shot from quite a way away.’ 

The King looked through the scope and hummed admiringly.

‘We have similar lenses, but none are as clear or as strong as these are.’ He handed the scope back to her and she reattached it to the rifle. This time taking the opportunity to store it away in its cover, zipping it closed and laying it down on the ground at her feet.

‘And the smaller weapon? The… gun. What is its range?’ He inquired.

Sabra was getting the distinct feeling that she was being weighed. The King was trying to determine what kind of addition she would make to his group. 

‘It has about the same range as a bow and arrow, maybe just a bit further, if you want it to still be accurate, only, as you have seen with the rifle, the bullet takes a much shorter time to reach its target, than an arrow does. The moment that you hear the sound of the shot, is about the same moment that the bullet impacts the target. And that is also its weakness. It is very loud and it attracts attention as soon as you fire the first shot. So, the gun is only useful in ongoing combat, when the enemy already knows you’re there. If you’re trying to be quiet and stealthy, you’re better off using a knife… Or a bow and arrow. And one of the downsides is that you can’t use bullets again after firing, unlike arrows. When a bullet is fired, it’s spent. Which means that my supply of bullets is finite. When they are all gone, the rifle and the gun will both be useless pieces of metal… Or only useful for bludgeoning people to death.’ She added with a glint of teeth.

‘You said you are a mercenary. Does that mean you have seen battle, or have you only killed from a distance, with your rifle?’

The conversation was, more and more, starting to resemble a job interview, and that was probably exactly what it was, she concluded.

‘If you’re asking me if I’ve fought in close combat situations, the answer would be, yes, I have. And seeing that I am still here, healthy and whole, and my opponents aren’t, says enough, doesn’t it? Now, why don’t you just ask me what you really want to ask and stop circling around the subject, hm?’ 

The King turned his head toward her abruptly, his blue gaze sharp and cunning, showing her that the bastard had been waiting for her to react in the way she just had; leaving her no choice but to hear out his proposition. 

‘Ah.’ She said, narrowing her eyes at him. ‘Walked right into that one, didn’t I?’

He answered her with a flashing of teeth; not quite a smile, but an expression of amusement none the less. 

‘You are still young. You will learn with time how to set a conversation to your hand.’ 

She tilted her head, examining his now indulgent expression. It felt a bit insulting if she was honest with herself.

‘This is the second time that you have commented on me being too young to know better. I don’t know how young you think I am, but by human standards, I am _not_ very young anymore. I’m nearer to forty than I am to thirty. If it is also March here, then I will be thirty-eight in two months time. To have you insinuate that I am nothing more than a child, twice now, is quite offensive, I have to say.’

He made a disagreeing sound.

‘You cannot be almost forty. I have lived and worked among the race of man for a long time. Their women of forty do not look like you do. They are all old and worn. You are not.’

A bark of laughter escaped her. She was unsure if she should be either insulted on behalf of all the forty year old women out there, or worried that he had such a narrow world view.

‘What do you mean? They are old? Women of forty are not old. Not where I come from. At what age do humans die in this place?’ Now she had to admit that she looked quite a bit younger than her almost thirty-eight years, but she had friends who were nearing forty, and they did definitely not look old and worn. If she’d ever made it back to London, she’d share this story with them and they’d all laugh heartily about this troglodyte of a man… dwarf.

He looked absolutely convinced of his claims as he answered her.

‘If they survive childhood, poverty, illness, multiple pregnancies and childbirths, and the rough work most of them are subjected to, they might make it past sixty, but most of the time those who do, live not past seventy. If they make it to seventy, they look ancient.’

A shiver of horror traveled down her spine. What a way to life ones life.

‘Well, I have to admit that forty year old women usually do look a bit older than I do, where I come from, but they are not old in the least. Most of them live until their late eighties, with many of them even reaching their nineties, and some live a century or more. The oldest woman at the moment is about a hundred and twenty years old… Men, on the other hand, mostly pass away before they’re eighty-five. Weaklings, the lot of them.’ She couldn’t help but add in a serious, gloomy voice, inwardly snickering.

Visibly bristling at that declaration, the King opened his mouth to answer her, until he saw something in her expression that made him stop and think. Then he tilted his head to her and sent her another one of those flashes of teeth.

‘I bow to your ability to spin my manipulation of a situation against me, mistress Ashford.’ 

Sabra shot him a grin, before becoming serious again.

‘I must say that you have me at a disadvantage. Where as you have been informed of my name by one of your companions, I have not had such an advantage. What should I call you?’

The King inclined his head.

‘I am Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror. At your service.’ He said with a solemn voice.

Sticking out her hand to him, she smiled.

‘Hello, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror. I am Sabra, daughter of Ashford.’ She thought it easier to keep the moniker that Bofur had given her, earlier, instead of trying to explain the tradition and use of surnames in her world.

Thorin stared at her proffered right hand, seemingly unsure what to do, but then grabbed her lower arm with his right hand and clasped it, shaking it once. She quickly took hold of his arm, feeling the steely muscles of his forearm work under his skin as they shook in greeting. She couldn’t help but notice the immense strength that hid beneath the cloth of his sleeve. She hadn’t been wrong, earlier, about the denseness of dwarves’ physiques it seemed.

When he let go, she pulled back her hand and tilted her head inquisitively.

‘So, how about we discuss the proposal that you have for me.’ Directness appeared to be the best way to speed the conversation along at that moment.

He nodded and crossed his arms over his chest. 

‘Alright… We are on a quest to retake our ancestral lands that were stolen from us by a dragon. We are going to try and recover the Arkenstone, my birthright, and with it, we will unite our people and form an army to defeat the dragon, taking back the mountain that was once our home. It will be our home once more.’

Sabra hummed in thought.

‘Okay, sounds like a plan. But what does that have to do with me?’ She wasn’t going to make it easy on him, even though she already knew what was coming.

‘Would you be interested in joining our cause, lending your skills to us to help us further our quest? You would receive a fifteenth share of whatever treasure is waiting for us at the end of this journey.’

Staring into the fire before her, Sabra thought it over. She’d known that this was coming from the moment that the King -Thorin- had displayed an interest in her weapons. The promise of a part of a treasure at the end of the quest was also very appealing. It would help her set up a life for herself in this place. On the other hand, there was a chance of everything going sideways and that would mean she would end up with nothing to show for her efforts towards their cause. She bit her lip in indecision and sighed.

‘Alright, I will help you.’ She said, holding up a hand when he opened his mouth to say something. ‘But, I do not want a share of the treasure. I want something else.’

Thorin’s face darkened with a sudden suspicion.

‘What do you want?’ His tone was bordering on hostile. Sabra was taken aback at how fast his mood could turn.

Clearing her throat, she looked him in the eye.

‘I want a promise.’

‘A promise.’ He parroted, clearly not amused.

She nodded.

‘Yes. I want you to promise me that, no matter what happens, if I help you until the end of your quest, even if it does not come to fruition as you hope it will, I will always have a home among your people, for as long as I shall live. I want you to swear that you, that your people, will take me in and give me a home after this journey is over. I am not from this world and I don’t know my way back to my own. I am homeless, a drifter in a hostile world, like you and your kin.’ 

A sceptical expression played over Thorin’s face.

‘That is what you want? A home? Nothing else?’

‘Yes, I want a home. Just like you do. Nothing else… And I swear, that if I leave before the quest is fulfilled, I will not hold you to your promise.’ She added.

He seemed to think it over for a few moments, rubbing his beard with his thumb as he gazed down at her with a contemplative expression on his face.

‘If that is what will bind you and your skills to this quest, then yes, I promise that if the quest is finished, no matter in which way it may end, you will have a home with my people. They will take you in as one of their own and help you to make a life for yourself in these lands. You will be under their protection, until the day that you pass from this life into the next.’ He held out his hand and this time she was the one to clasp his forearm first, sealing their verbal contract with a shake.

‘Then I am in your employ from this day forward, until the quest is fulfilled.’ She said, solemnly.

Thorin inclined his head to her as he let go of her arm and stood up from his perch on the log.

‘I will leave you to your supper.’ He said. ‘Have a good night.’ Then he was gone.

Sabra sighed as she took a wooden bowl with some kind of oats porridge, garnered with thin strips of meat, from Bombur, the dwarf smiling friendly at her before disappearing to his pots and pans again.

Over the glow of the campfire she caught sight of Gandalf, who was looking at her with a twinkle in his eyes. He nodded at her conspiringly and tapped the side of his nose with his index finger, as if he was well aware of what had just transpired between her and Thorin.

She frowned at him and then focussed on her food, stirring it with a wooden spoon, and ignoring the ruckus the dwarves were making during their meal, as much as she could. She had a lot to ponder on.


	7. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At first, traveling agrees with Sabra, but soon boredom sets in.
> 
> \----------
> 
> Also, Cliffhanger! Hehehe :P

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing but my OCs and parts of the storyline that you don't recognise.
> 
> I make no money from this story.
> 
> This is my Middle-Earth Sandbox! Yay! :D

**Chapter 6**

 

Thursday _, 30 April. The East Road, near the Brandywine bridge, the Shire._

 

It had taken her a few days, but, eventually, she’d -more or less- gotten used to riding the stubborn beast of torture that the others called a horse.

She’d fashioned a kind of saddle-like seat from her lightweight sleeping mat, folding it just so, that it cushioned her bum sufficiently enough for her not to be subjected to hellish pains at the end of each day; attaching it to the horse with a few lengths of borrowed rope. It had taken her a few tries to get it right; the first couple of times, the seat had started to shift and she’d had to dismount the horse to reposition it. 

At the end of the third day, she’d become so used to mounting and dismounting the horse, that it had become almost second nature, and she didn’t even blink at the thought anymore. After two days of riding and failing to keep the seat in place for more than an hour or two at a time, one of the dwarves -A mighty broad and intimidating fellow, who’d introduced himself as Dwalin- had taken pity on her and showed her how to properly tie the ropes around the horse, so that the seat wouldn’t shift anymore. From that moment on, her travel experience had improved significantly.

She’d fastened her rifle to the side of the horse as she didn’t think she’d need it in the coming days anyway, and it was quite a bother to have the clunky thing slung over her shoulder and across her back, while all they were doing was riding horses. All. Fucking. Day. Long.

When the issue of her smarting bum had been resolved, at first, she’d quite enjoyed the beautiful views that had unfolded around her as they traveled through green, rolling hills and fields; rocky cliffs cropping up here and there, and small patches of trees, and sometimes larger woods, bathing them in cool shadows; but, by day four, the boredom had begun to creep in.

It wasn’t like she wasn’t used to being bored on long missions. That was something that came with the territory of being a sniper. She’d had to lay still in one spot for hours on end -and sometimes days-, more times than she cared to count. So, it wasn’t the long, tedious days that had her figuratively gnawing at her nails from boredom. No, it was the fact that all of the dwarves in the company tenaciously held on to their joint effort to ignore her as much as possible, that had her feeling the boredom more than usual. Especially when they were chatting and joking with each other jovially, and then suddenly started talking in a guttural language that she didn’t understand, whenever she rode up too closely to their group. 

At one point she’d just given up on trying to make friends and taken to ‘guarding’ the back of the procession. The only ones who didn’t really treat her like a pariah, were Bofur -who had kept his distance ever since she’d used her rifle to prove a point, but was, over-all, still cordial when she encountered him- and Thorin, but she hardly ever saw the latter male, as he rode at the front of the group, while she was always tailing it at the back. And when they stopped for the night, he either mostly kept to himself, or was planning one thing or another with Gandalf and an elderly dwarf whose name she’d understood to be Balin. 

The hobbit, Bilbo, had been amiable when she’d tried to talk to him on day two, but also very reserved. Sabra had had the suspicion that he was feeling a bit intimidated by her and she had done her best to put him at ease, but for now she wasn’t making any progress on that front. The only thing that he'd told her that wasn't mumbles and hums, was that it was April here, instead of March. Which meant that either this world wasn't synchronised to hers, or she'd lost a month somewhere in between leaving her own world and arriving in this one. Which didn't make sense, because, to her knowledge, the shift between worlds had been instant, like the flip of a switch. It left her with more to ponder on during the long days of travel.

In addition to being ignored by the dwarves, and artfully dodged by a hobbit, it looked more and more like Gandalf was avoiding her as if she had the plague, and she hadn’t been able to ask him why, because the old wizard was a slippery fucker; somehow always keeping to one side of the camp when she was on the other and vice versa; even when she'd tried to seek him out intentionally. She still hadn’t found out how the hell he’d accomplished such a feat. After a few days of chasing him around, to no avail, she’d put her plans to ask him if he might know a way to get her home, on the back burner. He was clearly as much in the dark about her world-jumping ways as she was and she suspected that he didn’t want to admit his ignorance on the matter.

Two days into the quest, she’d taken up her daily training regimen again, just so she’d have something to do between waking up and eating breakfast, and during the lunch breaks that occurred every day around noon, or just after. In the mornings, she ran circles around camp -within the sight of the dwarves, like she had ‘promised’ Thorin- for about twenty minutes, clockwise and counterclockwise, reversing her direction halfway through. When she was done running, she’d find a low hanging branch to do pull ups, followed by either push-ups or burpees, and sit-ups, and, lastly, she ran a few cool down laps for about ten minutes. During lunch breaks, she’d find a quiet spot as far away from the group as she could manage without breaking the agreement with the King, and she’d practice her Tai Chi, just to regain her focus and centre her core, and keep her flexibility on par. She varied her workout by switching from the more traditional form of slow, graceful movements, to explosive bursts of motion, within one exercise. 

She’d had a teacher who had found it important that her students didn’t just know the meditative flow of the movements, but also how to implement those movements into defensive and offensive actions, should there come a day that they had to defend themselves.

Sabra had been practicing the martial art ever since she was sixteen, and her teacher, Gail, who was about ten years her senior, had become one of her closest friends over the years. She’d even had the honour of being best woman at Gail’s wedding to her long time partner, Saffron, and, a few years after that, she became godmother to their little girl, Gabrielle. In her off-time, between missions, Sabra often assisted with teaching Tai Chi classes, in Gail and Saffron’s dojo in central London. 

As she was sat on her horse, in a strange land, staring at the arse of the horse walking in front of her, she wondered to herself if she’d ever see them again.

Today was day four of their journey and their surroundings were starting to change. The hills and woods had respectively become rougher and more aged during the past few hours. Sabra had to admit that she’d been slightly relieved to see a landscape that was more familiar to her than the fairytale-like hills and fields they’d traversed through earlier in the week. It had all been very beautiful, but the bright greens of the grass, and the hills, and the trees, and the vibrant colours of the flowers and the sky -which had been nothing but a vivid blue, with the occasional white fluffy clouds, during the days- had been almost too perfect, lending a surreal feeling to the whole experience of traveling through a -to her- foreign land… Add to that her traveling companions, which were _dwarves_ … and a _hobbit_ … and an evasive _wizard,_ well, let’s just say that she had a few bruises on her arms from pinching herself hard enough to make sure she wasn’t dreaming it all up. Apparently, she wasn’t. And now that the landscape was changing into something rougher and more realistically aged, she was starting to really believe it, too.

Once, she had read about people who suffered from culture shock, about the feeling of surreality which could grip a person during the first few days of experiencing a culture that was so different from their own that their brain had trouble processing it all, which led to them feeling like they were walking around in a continuous dreamlike state. She hadn’t ever experienced it, herself, and had found it hard to relate; until she’d landed her arse in Middle-Earth, that is. 

Despite all her aches and pains confirming that she wasn’t dead or dreaming, she only now felt like her present reality was finally sinking in, after having already been in this strange new world for four days. It was as if a hazy veil had been lifted from her eyes, and her mind. 

Which forced her to admit to herself a truth that she'd been trying to deny these past few days. This was happening. It was all real… And it was also really fucked up, because she had no idea how to survive in this world that was so unlike her own, and she knew that if she found a way to go home, to her own reality -her former reality?-, she’d probably return to be seconds away from instant death. Talk about being between a rock and a hard place. Fuck.

All she could do now, was hope that she’d survive all the dangers that this quest was going to throw at them, and that Thorin would keep his word on providing her with a place among his people. She hated being dependent on others, for anything, and knowing that she was dependent on him, on these dwarves, for everything -except maybe protection, because she was perfectly capable of protecting herself, no matter how much Thorin may think otherwise-, pissed her off; royally.

Shaken from her gloomy thoughts by excited voices, she noticed that the group was slowing down as they neared a large stone bridge that spanned a broad river. Daylight was starting to fade and Sabra suspected that they’d reached their destination. Another day had passed.

Sighing, she dismounted her horse when everyone else did theirs and made sure that the beast was as dry and comfortable as possible, and divested it of the ‘saddle’ and of its burden of food, crockery and her backpack and weapon, so that it could rest and graze among the green, juicy grass next to the river, before she made her way to the others, dropping all the packages she was carrying -save her backpack and rifle- next to where a campfire had been started by Bombur. He’d sort everything out, food wise, and then return the things he hadn’t needed, to her, in the morning.

She then sat down on one of the larger rocks that were scattered along the sides of the river, a bit away from where the others were now starting to sit down, and opened her pack, fishing out her spare knickers -which she’d found in a small side-pocket when she’d inventoried her belongings on day two, and was infinitely grateful for- and her thermal leggings, which she’d decided to use as a makeshift towel whenever she got the chance to bathe again. Which was now. She hadn’t gotten the chance to have a wash since that first day, and she was smelling ripe, even to her own nose. Yuck. Maybe it was a good idea to wash her long-sleeve shirt, too. It was starting to reek after being worn for over a week straight. Just to be sure that she had something to wear after bathing, she took out her thermal shirt from the pack. That would do fine as a top, while her clothes dried by the fire.

She stood and strolled up to the group of dwarves, who were all huddled around the fire pit, chatting amongst themselves. Stopping next to Thorin, she addressed him.

‘So, um, I’m going to take a bath a bit further downstream. I thought I’d let you know, as to honour our agreement.’

Thorin looked up at her briefly and then nodded, his gaze flicking away from hers as fast as it had locked onto it. He turned to Bofur.

‘Bofur, you will guard mistress Ashford as she bathes.’

The dwarf sprung up and grabbed his axe, gesturing for Sabra to lead the way.

‘Of course. After you, mistress Ashford.’ 

Together, they made their way downstream, until their camp was invisible behind a bend in the river.

Bofur checked the depth and the current of the water with a stick and judged this part, at least, safe enough to bathe in.

‘Can’t have yeh being swept away by the water.’ He joked with a wink. ‘I’ll be up there, behind those trees.’ He pulled out a pipe and a small bag of tobacco from his jerkin and and gestured to where the woods started. He smiled at her. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t peek.’

Narrowing her eyes at him, she grumbled,

‘You better not.’

He laughed when he saw her expression.

‘There is only one reason that our dear king has sent me with you, instead of one of the others, Sabra, and that is because he knows that I’m the only one out of all of them, who won’t take a peek at yer naked bosoms.’

‘And why is that?’ She raised an eyebrow at him.

He sent her a grin.

‘Well, it is because I am not so inclined. My tastes lie elsewhere.’ He wiggled his eyebrows at her as he gestured towards where the other males in the company were located, and then made his way up the riverbank, whistling a merry tune.

A smile broke on Sabra’s face. _Ah._ Laughing quietly, she shook her head at his antics and quickly unfastened her knife and gun holsters and her body armour, and took off her clothes. As she was sure that this water was going to be even colder than the water of the brook, because of the sheer volume of it, she jumped in quickly; concluding that she had been right. It was just on this side of freezing. She washed as fast as she could, before hurrying back out and grabbing her thermal leggings to dry off; shivering from the frigid water that ran down her body in rivulets. 

Every now and then, a waft of pipe smoke would fill her nose, confirming to her that Bofur was still close by, keeping an eye out for trouble.

She decided to air dry for a bit before pulling on her clothes. In contrast to the frigid waters, the evening air was still pleasantly warm after a lovely spring day and she basked in the feeling of being clean, with the air passing freely over her naked skin.

Humming, she started to wash out her knickers, bra, and shirt in a shallow part of the river, while kneeling on a patch of grass.

And that’s when trouble found her… found them. 

Looking back, later, she still wasn’t sure how she could have let her guard down like that. In spite of being ignored by most of the dwarves, she felt safe with them. Which made her careless, and less observant of her surroundings. How could she have been so stupid?!


	8. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how to summarise this...
> 
> I am so, so sorry.
> 
> TRIGGER warning.  
> Death, Murder, Rape, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Dissociation, PTSD, Flashbacks, Suicidal Thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what happened... 
> 
> I wanted to write a long chapter to make up for the cliffhanger... And then this happened. It is long. Over 5500 words... But it isn't very happy... Sabra is a total badass, though, if slightly unhinged and violent... 
> 
> SO sorry. O.O
> 
> *hides under keyboard*

**Chapter 7**

 

A fraction of a second before she heard Bofur’s panicked shout, _‘Sabra, RUN!’,_ come from the woods, she heard a shuffling sound behind her. And she was too slow… _Too_ fucking _slow_. 

As she jumped up, and half turned around, she caught sight of a large man, towering over her. He must have been over six feet tall and mighty quiet on his feet if he’d been able to sneak up to her as he had. A sharp sword found its way to her throat while more shouts could be heard from the direction of the camp, followed by sounds of battle; metal striking metal; metal striking… other things, followed by cries of pain, and bellows of bloodlust. 

From the moment that Sabra felt the sword at her jugular, she froze. Everything inside her went still. So very still, and so very, very cold. Everything that was her, seemed to seep away when she realised that she was completely naked, and thus completely vulnerable, as her weapons were laying in the grass, yards away. 

Her gaze focussed on the man standing in front of her, who was grinning at her lasciviously, and then traveled to the sword that was held to her throat. It was clearly often used, but very well maintained. The edge looked terribly sharp. _Shite._

The man was joined by three others, who also were quite tall, and broadly built. Behind them, she could suddenly see how Bofur burst from the trees with a cry, while he was trying to fight off two more men, blocking the blows of their swords with his axe and giving as good as he got. In spite of him being at least a head shorter than both men, he held his own, dodging, and parrying, and hacking. Behind him, she could see more men run through the trees, toward where the others were fighting.

Her attention was pulled back to the man in front of her when he roughly grabbed her arm and yanked her to him, lowering his sword from her throat. _Shit, focus, Sabra! This is your chance!_ She was still frozen, inside and out. Why couldn’t she _move?!_

‘Well, look what I found, boys! Those dwarves ‘ave ‘emselves a nice little bedwarmer. She don’ even need undressing. Such a pretty little thing. An’ she’s shaved off all of her woman hair, for those dwarf pricks. What do ye say we show her what a real man feels like!’ His breath stank like rotting meat and Sabra scrunched up her nose as her stomach rebelled from the stench, and from his words. ‘Look at those nice round titties!’ The hand that was holding onto her arm, let it go, to squeeze her breast, hard, as the other men chuckled at their leader’s actions and words. ‘Oh, I can’t wait ta feel tha’ juicy puss o’ yours, little girl, it must be so tight.’

This was enough to temporarily shock her from her stupor. Her hand shot out and whacked away the hand that had been traveling downward from her breast, with a speed and a strength that the man was clearly not expecting.

‘Do. Not. Touch. Me.’ She hissed, taking a step back, balancing precariously on the edge of the riverbank. Somehow, she found herself doing that a lot in the past few days, and she cursed her bad luck of being caught out on ledges constantly. She needed to get terra firma under foot if she wanted to stand a chance against these behemoths. 

‘Oooh, we got ourselves a fighter, boys. This‘ll be good. I love it when they struggle.’ His grin turned malicious and before she knew what was happening, Sabra found herself on the ground, being pinned down by the weight of the man who had grabbed her. He had somehow thrown her down -had she blacked out for a moment while standing up?- and the sudden fall had crushed the breath out of her lungs and left her gasping for air.

What was happening? She seemed to have lost all her reflexes. It was as if her body had forgotten how to fight off an attacker. Her mind and body had both gone completely blank on the defence front, and it was terrifying.

The man on top of her started to undo his breeches and that was when she felt something hard digging into her hip. Something hard that wasn’t the thing the man was trying to get out of his breeches, which was something she desperately tried to not think about. The other thing felt like something made of metal. She could feel the coolness press against her naked skin. It had to be the handle of a dagger of some sort, because she could feel its rigid, tapered shape, covered in leather, run along her upper thigh.

Suddenly, her entire existence seemed to centre itself around the weapon. Her world folded in on itself and became one of hyper focus. It condensed and there was only that one object. And that was something she knew. Something she was familiar with. And it was something she now seized onto with her entire being. Her hyper focus during combat situations… It enabled her to process information with a dizzying speed and filter out any non-essential background noise that her senses picked up, so that there was only her, and the threat, or threats, that needed to be eliminated. Which she then did. 

A few of her team mates -when she still worked in a team, that is- had accused her of having a spidey-sense, with how fast her reaction time was and how swiftly she moved while expiring enemy soldiers. She’d just shrugged in answer and had mocked them about being slow and old and how they couldn’t keep up with her. Her martial arts training had given her wicked fast reflexes.

While the man on top of her was busy with other things -she wasn’t going to acknowledge the burning, tearing pain between her legs, or the involuntary rhythmic shocks that went through her body. _She wasn’t!_ -, Sabra let her hand slide down and curled her fingers around the cylindrical, metal handle of the dagger that protruded from where it had been fastened to a belt. If she could get the man off of her, she could try to reach her own knives. She could fight with those knives. She’d cut each and every man who would ever dare to reach for her without her consent, ever again, into tiny little pieces. _after I’ve shoved their genitals down their throats._

From the moment her hand closed around the dagger, the world came back to her. She heard the sounds of battle, she heard the lewdness of the other men’s commentary about, and to, the man rutting above her as they spurred him on, and she heard Bofur crying out her name in desperation. Her eyes found his as he parried another blow from a sword. Anguish was written all over his face as he tried to reach her, only to be held back by his adversaries, who kept slashing at him with their swords. 

Rage filled her at seeing the gentle dwarf receive a nick on his leg from a sword that had glanced off of the handle of his axe, at the same time as she pulled the dagger free of its sheath. The man on top of her was talking to his companions and none of them had noticed the missing dagger, which she kept out of sight under a flap of the man’s tunic.

‘She’s so tight, I’m Hnghhh.’ The man lifelessly flopped onto her as she forcefully stabbed his unprotected belly and pushed the dagger up, violently shoving it under his ribs, into his heart and lungs, leaving a large slash in his abdomen that rapidly doused her in his warm blood. She almost revelled in it in triumph, sucking in a breath that felt like it was the first breath she’d taken in a very long time. She’d repaid the violence he forced onto her, onto her body, with her own swift and deadly form of retaliation.

The men standing over her were laughing at their leader’s strange behaviour. In the half darkness they hadn’t noticed the blood… Yet.

‘Oren, is she so tight that you spilled already?’ One of the men mockingly said, eliciting another lewd laugh from the other two. ‘Get out of the way, so we can have a turn.’

Sabra growled, low in her throat, seeing red. It was time for them to die. It was time for _all_ of them to die. Rage burned through her and it sharpened her senses, allowing her to see more intensely and in more vivid colours, to hear the tiniest bug crawling along under the grass behind her head, and to sample the scents that filled the air as she pulled it in through her nose, tasting the tiny blood-particles that permeated her surroundings on the back of her tongue, as if she was gorging herself on the warm, viscous liquid that painted her body a dark red, as it lay prostrate under its now expired invader.

The heat of her rage seeped into her muscles, making her stronger than she already was, and she pushed the heavy male away from her as if he weighed nothing. His comrades shouted their bewilderment at their leader’s blood-soaked clothes and at the entrails that hung out of the cut in his abdomen, as his eyes stared sightlessly; wide open in a frozen expression of pain and surprise. 

One of them recovered quicker from his shock than the other two, and he tried to make a grab for her when he saw her move, but Sabra rolled to the side and away from the three men, slashing at his hands with her dagger. 

She stumbled to her feet and quickly regained her bearings. Her eyes found her knives on the ground, only a few yards away, with nothing - and nobody- standing between them and her. She dove for them with a half roll, scooping up the holstered karambit knives in the same movement she used to roll back to her feet and then dropped the bloodied dagger to the ground.

Sabra freed her knives from their holsters, and felt their familiar weights in her hands, her index fingers slipping through the holes at the end of the handles, bringing them into their correct positions in her grip, their curved blades protruding outwards from below her pinky fingers. Balancing on the balls of her feet, she brought up her knife enhanced fists, and hunched slightly, keeping herself as protected as possible in her undressed state. 

All three men had pulled their swords and were advancing on her. When they saw the tiny -compared to their swords and daggers- curved knives she held, they started to mock her while trying to surround her, calling her a stupid little whore and a kitten with tiny claws, promising her more depravity before they ended her.

As if from far away, she could hear their taunts, but all she was focussed on, were their movements, and their breathing, and their heartbeats. Which would all soon cease to be; she would make sure of it.

It was clear that they thought they’d play with her for a bit before disarming her and finishing what their deceased companion had started. They were still relaxed in their stances and over all quite carefree as they tried to close in on her.

When one of the men advanced on her, with his sword at the ready, she feigned a movement to the side, and when he halfheartedly slashed at her, she gracefully moved to his other side, twirling away from the blade. One of her hands shot out, stabbing him in the wrist of his sword hand, tearing skin, veins, and tendons alike with the razor sharp blade that cut through it as if it cut through butter. With a loud bellow of pain, he dropped his sword from his now useless hand, and grabbed onto his wrist, blood pumping out in time with his heartbeat from where she’d nicked the artery. 

Before any of the other two men had time to react, Sabra had jumped onto his back, grabbing his long hair and yanking his head back. In rapid succession, she stabbed the man in the temple tree times, thus ending his life. As his body dropped to the ground, she used the momentum to launch herself from his shoulders and roll under the -now more serious- sword stroke of the second man, stabbing him viciously in the groin. She slid from under his falling body and came up behind him when he hit the ground with his knees, grabbing his hair to pull his head back and slashing at his throat so violently that she almost beheaded him, the movement coating her body in another layer of blood.

She almost missed the attack of the third man, his sword coming down towards her back, but, at the last moment, she heard the whoosh and rolled away, the sword slashing into the nearly beheaded fellow with a squelch. The evasive action did cost her one of her knives, though. It had slipped from the hand that had been grabbing the other man’s hair and therefore she hadn’t been holding on to it properly. 

The loss of one of her knives didn’t deter her from attacking the third man, who had started to slash at her in earnest. She had to admit that he knew what he was doing. He didn’t allow for any vulnerable openings in his defence and he nicked her a couple of times with his sword, leaving a few shallow cuts on her upper arm and on her thigh. _Motherfucker_ cut straight through one of her rose tattoos.

When she couldn’t get him to lower his guard and hadn’t been able to get a stab in for a couple of minutes, while constantly dancing away from his sword strokes, her mind cold and calculating behind the rage, she feigned a misstep, stumbling and clumsily dropping her other knife.

A triumphant laugh escaped the man when she righted herself and held her hands up in defeat, a defeated and terrified expression falling like a mask over her face. As she had expected, he dropped his guard and the tip of his sword went from pointing at her to pointing to the ground.

This was the mistake she had been waiting for and her reflexes of over twenty years of fight training took over. With the speed of a viper striking, she was past the range of his sword and before the man could blink in surprise, she’d thrust the tightened knuckles of her right hand into his throat with as much force as she could manage, crushing his larynx and leaving him unable to breathe. He dropped his sword and grabbed onto his neck, as if trying to remove an invisible garrote wire. His eyes were bulging as his face slowly turned red, and then purple, Sabra’s surgically precise hit slowly choking him to death. 

Sabra just stood there, staring at the man coldly, as he fell to his knees. He looked up at her in horrified disbelief just before his body slammed into the ground, lifeless. She took a small step back so he wouldn’t hit her in the legs. Somehow, she felt strangely detached now that her assailants were all dead, by her own hand.

Her gaze left the dead man at her feet and traced the ground, searching for her dropped knives. There was a strange ringing in her ears when she bent over to first pick up one, and then the other, fitting the holes in the handles over her index fingers automatically and gripping them tightly in her hands.

As if in a dream, she turned toward Bofur, who was still battling the two men, and leisurely strolled up to him. It felt to her like the world was moving in slow-motion, while she moved in real time. _Strange._ She tilted her head as she contemplated the sensation for a second. 

Was she _high_? 

What a very weird thing to think of in a moment like this. She quickly let go of the thought and intercepted one of the men who was about to stab Bofur in the back. She passed in front of the man, artfully dodging his sword, and cut his throat as she ran by, then she jumped to the side and spun around the fighting males until she was between Bofur and his attacker. With a quick stab upwards, she stabbed the man underneath the chin, forcing his head up, and then cut his throat, receiving a large spray of blood in the face for her efforts. Just as fast as she had stabbed and sliced, she pulled both knives back, allowing the body to drop to the ground and lowering her arms when she didn’t detect any more threats.

Looking around the battlefield, her dispassionate gaze traveled over the six men she’d just straight up slaughtered. Behind her, Bofur was gasping for air as he leaned on his battle axe.

Over all, the whole ordeal hadn’t taken more than ten minutes, fifteen at most, but it felt like she’d lived an entire lifetime in those minutes. 

It had become quiet around them. The sounds of battle from the direction of their camp had also ceased. She wondered detachedly about who had won the fight there.

‘Lass?’ Bofur’s soft voice broke the silence. ‘Are ye alright?’

Sabra just kept staring at the carnage, the ringing in her ears becoming louder. What a stupid question. Of course she was okay. She was fine _._

When she didn’t answer him, the dwarf tried again.

‘Lass?’ 

A gentle touch on her arm made a shock of cold horror travel down her spine. Her hand shot out and took his wrist in an iron grip, the blunt handle of her knife digging into his flesh. She heard him grunt in surprised discomfort, but she didn’t turn around to apologise for hurting him.

‘ _Never without my permission._ ’ She ground out in a low voice, releasing his wrist after a warning squeeze that rubbed the bones together.

Bofur pulled back his arm as if he’d been burnt.

‘Of course.’ He sounded so gentle. Why was his voice so soft? So… full of sympathy.

A shiver wracked her body. 

She was _fine._

Suddenly a shout came from the direction of camp.

‘They’re alive! Bofur! Sabra!’ Was that Bilbo? He sounded relieved. Happy to see that they were still inhabiting the land of the living. Why couldn’t she share his happiness that she was still alive? She heard his footsteps as he ran up to them, followed by the others. The dwarves made quite a racket as they conveyed their happiness about them being alright. 

Torches then illuminated the darkness that had fallen, throwing dancing shadows on the death that surrounded her.

‘Turn away, show mistress Ashford some respect.’ That was Thorin, addressing the dwarves, his voice a warning. Her back was turned to them, but she’d heard the whispers as they beheld her while she stood amidst the bodies; exclamations of shock as they gazed upon her nakedness and the massacre that lay at her feet. Then she heard the group start to leave, back to their camp, at the command of their leader.

She was _fine._

‘Well done, Bofur.’ Thorin again. ‘Taking on six men at once is quite a feat.’

Bofur cleared his throat.

‘It wasn’t me who killed them… Any of them.’

It was silent for a few seconds. Then,

‘ _She_ did this?’ Thorin’s voice was disbelieving.

Bofur hummed in confirmation.

‘Never seen someone move like that. She was agile like a cat and struck with the speed of a… of the viper she has on her back. It was graceful. It.. It looked like… It was a dance. She was dancing; twirling, and jumping, and killing with those small, curved knives of hers. And she tore through them like it was nothing. As if they were defenceless children, fighting with wooden swords. It was over in mere minutes.’

Sabra’s breathing sped up when she relived the fight as Bofur was telling it. She’d fought in close quarters before, but it had never been this brutal. _She_ ’d never been this brutal. The rage that had burned inside her, that still burned inside her, had demanded death. Savage deaths, for all who had violated her, or intended to violate her. It had revelled in their blood.

All that blood… Her body was coated in it. It started to pull on her skin as it was drying. The blood of their… her attackers. The blood of her ra… _NO!_

She was **_fine._**

‘Mistress Ashford.’ Thorin spoke to her, his voice calm and authoritative, but she couldn’t get herself to answer him, keeping her eyes fixed on the bodies in front of her.

‘Thorin…’ That was Bofur. He sounded hesitant. 

‘Why is she not moving?’

Behind her, Bofur quieted his voice as he spoke to Thorin.

‘One of the men, he has forced himself upon her. When they attacked us at first it was as if she was frozen in fear, and four of them got to her before I could reach her. One of them had her on the ground within seconds. It took her a few minutes to snap out of her shock, and by then it was too late.’ His tone was one of shame and sadness. ‘I couldn’t get to her.’ He whispered tormentedly; clearly blaming himself for not being able to save her.

Sabra swallowed, her mouth dry.

She was **_fine!_**

It was silent for a few moments. Then, a deep growl, no, a snarl, was ripped from Thorin’s throat, as he reacted to Bofur’s statement. It was not a sound that she’d ever heard anyone make before; sounding so animal like that she almost turned around to make sure they were not being attacked by a big predator. Almost.

She could hear Thorin inhale loudly through his nose in a bid to regain his calm.

‘And then what happened?’ 

‘She somehow got a hold of a dagger, and cut her attacker open, from pelvis to sternum, killing him instantly.’

A grunted ‘Good.’ Came from Thorin. His tone was laced with rage. She recognised it for what it was, because it was a reflection of her own, burning like an ember in her gut.

‘Then she threw him off and killed the others, savagely. After that, she killed the two who attacked me. When that was done, she turned back to look at her attackers and just stood there, as she is now.’

‘She is so quiet.’

Bofur hummed, but offered no further explanations.

_She was_ **_fine!_ **

In her head, the violence of the past minutes played before her mind’s eye. Over and over. And she couldn’t move. It kept her prisoner.

**_She was fine!_ **

‘Mistress Ashford.’ Thorin sounded closer to her now. She closed her eyes as she tensed, her body reacting to the nearness of a male by involuntarily going into defensive mode.

**_She was FINE!_ **

Again Thorin tried.

‘Mistress Ashford.’

**_SHE WAS FINE!_ **

‘Thorin, I wouldn’t do th…’ Bofur’s voice was a warning.

A big, rough, warm hand landed heavily on her shoulder, and immediately she was back underneath her rapist, her mind screaming at her to fight. 

Fight! 

**_FIGHT!_ **

With a loud roar, she broke from her frozen state and spun on her axis, striking out with her knife and hitting the thick leather vambrace that was attached to the arm of the hand that had been on her shoulder, leaving a deep cut in the tanned animal skin. Her adversary jerked his arm away and quickly threw his sword up to block a strike of the other knife, which had been aimed at his face. Over and over, the male in front of her blocked her strikes with his sword, matching her speed and strength, but being forced to retreat backwards from her aggressive offence. He was yelling at her, but the ringing in her ears was so dominant that all she could hear was her own heartbeat, pounding away in rage.

Each thrust of her knives was accompanied with more vengeful outcries that ripped from her throat as she advanced on him. Whereas in the first fight she’d been eerily silent, she was now roaring her pain and her rage into the face of her attacker. She danced, and she slashed, and she feigned, and she stabbed, and she twirled, increasing her speed and the strength of her attacks, but she couldn’t get past his defences.

Then, by chance, he tripped backwards over a fallen branch, landing on his back in the grass. She was on him in a split second, her legs astride his abdomen, her knife sailing toward his face. He dropped his sword and caught her wrist in his big hand, halting it with a grunt, the knife stopping its descent only centimetres from his eye. She snarled at him and immediately thrust the other knife at his neck, it being also blocked by an iron grip that wound itself around her lower arm. She tried to push on, but he was too strong and kept her knives at bay; with difficulty, but he did.

The man beneath her was still yelling at her. She saw his mouth move, and the expression on his face was one of almost-desperation. _No_ , it was mocking and pulled into a horrific mask of pleasure as he took from her what she didn’t want to give. He had no right. _No right!_

A wailing howl of rage, and powerlessness, and grief left her body. She had to take out all threats. Otherwise they’d hurt her over and over. Again, she pushed against the powerful restraints on her arms; it was to no avail.

‘…ra!’ A deep voice found its way through the ringing in her ears. She shook her head in confusion and started pushing against her restraints again. The man beneath her grunted from exertion.

‘…abra! _Stop!_ ’ There it was again. Non-comprehendingly she stared into the face of her attacker. What was he saying?

‘ _Sabra!_ ’ How did he know her name?… _Why_ did she know his voice?

‘Sabra, it’s _me…_ _Thorin!_ Do you understand me?’ His tone was beseeching.

Thorin? She blinked, her breathing fast and unsteady as the mocking face of her attacker turned into Thorin’s, before that was overlaid with her attacker’s face again. Then she blinked once more, and Thorin was back. 

‘ _Thorin?_ ’ She breathed, her eyes flying over his familiar features and then locking onto his, usually, crystalline blue gaze, which was now almost a transparent light grey in the yellowish torchlight. 

‘Yes. Yes, it’s me.’ His expression turned from worried to relieved. Then his gaze flicked to the knives in her hands. ‘Can you release your knives for me? Please?’ His voice was quiet and placating. 

‘Lot of good that’s going to do ya. Her hands are as deadly as her knives… Less bloody, though.’ Sabra heard Bofur say laconically, from behind her.

This remark was enough to ground her in the present and she relaxed her hands, allowing her knives to dangle from her index fingers.

Slowly, Thorin released her left arm to gently take the knife from her finger. Then the other knife followed the first, as he laid them down next to his head.

Sabra looked down at him as he divested her from her knives. His gaze never left hers while he did so; his eyes sharply observing her expressions, and her body language. He was probably trying to make sure that she wouldn’t have another flashback.

‘I can take care of myself.’ She whispered. The thought had come to the forefront of her mind, as she suddenly remembered their conversation on her first night in Middle-Earth, and it had escaped her mouth before she could stop it.

Thorin nodded, his long, dark hair dragging over the grass.

‘I believe you.’ His tone was solemn and calm, as were his eyes. He was still panting, though, slightly out of breath from their fight… From her attack on him.

Which made her realise…

She’d tried to _kill_ the Dwarf King… And had almost succeeded.

A shuddering breath left her body. _Shit. Fuck!_

And she was sitting on his midriff naked and bloodied, as her body moved up and down in time with his breaths.

 Quickly she scrambled off and away from him, her breathing speeding up again.

‘I attacked you! I am so sorry!’ She cried out as she kneeled a few yards away from him, her eyes wild and unfocussed as she sat back on her heels and hunched over, hugging her arms around herself, trying to cover up as well as she could. She shivered in the cooling air, goosebumps forming on her arms and legs.

She was unused to feeling so incredibly vulnerable and mentally unbalanced. She’d always been someone who was strong, and confident, and cocky, and sassy. And now… She didn’t even recognise herself. A desperate tear escaped her right eye and ran over her cold cheek, leaving a scorching trail on its way to her chin. Her soul felt battered and numb.

Thorin rolled to his feet in a supple movement and walked toward her, his ironclad boots entering her vision in almost the same way as they had four days before. Then a soft warmth surrounded her as a heavy leather and fur coat was laid around her shoulders. Thorin crouched down in front of her and she looked up into his eyes, pulling the edges of the coat together. His expression was one of compassion.

‘Do not linger on it. I do not hold it against you, and I never will.’ His deep voice soothed her frayed nerves and she could breathe a little easier.

‘I have to wash.’ She said; her mind jumping from one topic to the next. Suddenly, she felt a great need to wash off all the blood. She needed to scrub away the dirt. _All_ of it.

The King nodded in understanding and helped her stand. Her legs were trembling now that the adrenaline was leaving her body. She stumbled to the side and if he hadn’t been supporting her, she’d fallen flat on her face.

‘Easy.’ He mumbled, his tone warm and comforting.

At the riverside he let go of her arm and turned away, so that she could take off his coat before she entered the water. When both he and Bofur started to walk away, panic overtook her.

‘Wait! Don’t leave! You can’t leave!’ Her voice had a pleading note which she had never heard before. She detested it. She _hated_ it. But they couldn’t leave her there. All alone.

Both dwarves halted their departure.

‘We’re only going as far as the trees, lass… Like before.’ Bofur explained gently.

Before… She didn’t want to remember… Before… 

She squeezed her eyes closed tightly as she willed away the graphic images of violation her mind was so eager to throw at her.

‘ _No!_ No, please. I… I can’t…’ Her voice trailed off. She felt ashamed. If she already sounded this helpless and pitiful to her own ears, then how would _they_ perceive her whining. She cringed at the thought.

To her relief, Thorin walked to a large boulder and sat down.

‘Do not worry, we will stay here.’ He said.

Bofur sat himself down on another rock, his back to her and twiddling his thumbs as he frowned to himself -he was clearly still burdened by his inability to help her-, until Thorin charged him with finding her knives and to return them to where her clothes were still laying on the ground. The items were completely undisturbed by the battle and it felt surreal, seeing her clean clothes lay neatly folded like that. Her dirty clothes, which she’d been washing when she was attacked, were another story entirely. They were still where she’d dropped them, covered in mud.

Sabra took off Thorin’s coat and handed it back to him over his shoulder. At first he stiffened at the unexpected gesture, but then he took the coat and nodded in thanks, keeping his eyes trained on the ground in front of him.

With a sigh, she turned away from him and stepped into the water, wading until it was up to her hips and then kneeling so that she could wash away all the _filth_ that covered her. The icy water numbed her body as she washed - _scrubbed_ \- herself, taking the sting away from the shallow cuts on her limbs, and soothing the burning pain between her legs.

Closing her eyes, she submerged herself completely under the dark surface of the water to wash her face and her head, wondering if anyone would care if she never came up again, because, at that moment, she didn’t really care, herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pls review? O.o


	9. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations at night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing but my OFC and part of the storyline that you don’t recognise.
> 
> I make no money from this story.
> 
> This is my Middle Earthy Sandbox.
> 
> ————————————
> 
> This chapter is unbeta’d and was spelling checked only superficially. All mistakes are my own.
> 
> Just wanted to throw this out there after such a long absence, due to illness, a house sale and a house buy. But I’m back. For now :)

Chapter 8

 

A hushed, but harsh whispering awoke her that night. She had been drifting in and out of sleep for a few hours; each and every sound from the forest startling her awake from the horrific images that plagued her sleep. Or, ‘slumber’, was more like it.

The moment she became aware of the conversation held only metres from where she was laying, she tensed, her hand slipping to the dagger in her thigh holster, fingers automatically klicking loose the safety and folding themselves around the leather that was wrapped around the handle. She opened her eyes in small slits and could just make out Gandalf and Thorin, sitting with their heads bowed together in the darkness, their features only visible from the light of the moon, as Thorin had ordained that making a fire was too dangerous after the attack. There was too much risk of being spotted by more ruffians that might be prowling the woods. After the disposing of the bodies by having his company throw them in the river, he’d also put out more guards than before. Fili, Dori, Dwalin and Gloin were positioned at regular intervals around their camp.

She relaxed minutely when she didn’t detect any immediate threats and eavesdropped on the conversation between the leader of their pack and the quaint wizard.

 _‘I’m not sure what you mean, Thorin.’_ Gandalf whispered in a suprised tone. He might have sounded exasperated to someone who was not intently listening, but Sabra could hear the hesitance and elusiveness in his tone. The old codger was trying to wiggle his way out of directly answering to something Thorin had asked him.

A soft, frustrated growl was heard. The Dwarf King was not happy with the wizard.

 _‘Why will you not give me a clear answer?’_ Sabra heard a deep, boneweary sigh.

 _‘I am giving you the most clear answer I can with the information I possess. Now, might it be that you think you saw something that was not there? You were tired; fresh out of the heat of battle, and so was she. Is it not possible that the experience was influenced by that?’_ Gandalf sounded persuasively friendly and Sabra heard an almost hypnotising note in the wizard’s voice. It was as if he was trying to convince the Dwarf King of something that he, himself, didn’t really believe.

 _‘I am telling you, I know what I saw. What I felt. It was not imagined. Do not take me for a fool, wizard. You will not sway my mind with your tricks.’_ Thorin hissed at Gandalf, sounding more and more pissed off at the old man. _‘I want to know **what** she is! She falls out of the sky, appearing from nothing, like Magic. She moves and fights like an Elf; her speed and accuracy mirroring theirs. She heals faster than most people, and her strength is above that of an average grown Dwarrow, or even an Elf. I had trouble keeping her from killing me because she is so strong, and in spite of her short stature and human appearance, she is more brutal, and lethal, than I have ever seen during my lifetime, in any female of all the races combined. I could see the bloodlust raging inside her. Her eyes burnt with it. It was almost palpable. If it turns out that that woman is a product of the race of Man, as you would have me believe, then I will eat my sword. She told me that she is almost thirty-eight. She does not look it. Especially if you keep insisting that she is of Mannish origins, which makes the traits I have observed in her, unnatural. There is something not right with this; with her. I fear that she may endanger the Quest with her presence amongst us. I want to know, Gandalf. What is it you hide?’_

Sabra held her breath in shock at hearing the Dwarf King’s heated reply. They were talking about her! She kept as still as possible and forced her breathing to resume; breaths deep and in regular intervals, as if she was sleeping. She was outwardly calm, while her stomach churned with nerves and her body was desperate to let the tremors of muscle tension go free.

It was quiet for a few moments.

 _‘Gandalf.’_ The name sounded like an admonishment. More a grunt than a spoken word.

Gandalf sighed, sounding slightly impatient to her ears. Sabra saw his hesitant and worried gaze travel to where she was pretending to sleep and she quickly closed her slitted eyes, fighting to keep her breathing even.

_‘If you must know. I am as much in the dark about her origins as you are. When she had only just arrived, I sensed something from her, something familiar. But it was gone before I could pinpoint what it was. I suspect it was a residu from the magic that brought her here. And now, there is nothing there. She seems, on all accounts, of the race of Man. I do not sense anything out of the ordinary... If I take into account the way she arrived in our midst, it might be a very different world from which she originated. Maybe where she is from, Man is different? Stronger, and faster? Maybe life in her world was even more brutal than it is here?’_

Sabra felt a pulsating pressure come from where the two were conversing. It pushed at her brain. Then, as fast at it had appeared, it was gone; her ears plopped from the perceived sudden difference in air pressure. Gandalf again. And this time she was sure that Thorin hadn’t noticed the push of magic, because he didn’t mention it. So, probably, the plopping in her ears hadn’t been from a drop in air pressure. It had something to do with what that meddling wizard was trying to press onto Thorin’s mind.

She heard a dissatisfied grunt come from the King. At first, she thought he was going to contest the statement made by Gandalf, but, to her surprise, he kept quiet.

Peeping through her lashes, she saw how the old man laid a hand on the King’s shoulder and squeezed comfortingly before walking away and disappearing behind the trees. She also saw the hard glare that the King threw at his retreating back. He wasn’t buying what Gandalf was selling. Not even with the wizard’s ‘push’ behind the words he had spoken. Leave it to the headstrong Dwarf to render a magical persuasion useless. Grumbling under his breath, Thoring leaned against a tree that was located to her left, and slid down it, into a half seated position, stretching his booted legs out in front of him. She heard a mutter under his breath that sounded very much like, _‘I **know** what I saw.’_ His tone was stubborn.

Then he crossed his arms over his chest and let his head hang down, closing his eyes with a weary sigh.

It wasn’t long before she could hear soft snores emanating from him.

Her own mind was reeling with what she had heard. She didn’t know how to process it all. There was too much going on inside her head, already. She turned onto her right side, intentionally putting her back towards the Dwarf King, and stared into the the darkness beyond the trees. A few yards away, she could see the outline of Fili where he was sitting on a tree stump, his back to her, long dagger in hand, keeping a sharp eye on their surroundings and guarding the camp full of snoring Dwarves.

How she wished that she could slip into oblivion as easily as them. Each time she closed her eyes, she was bombarded with images that replayed the events of the night. Over, and over, and over. Intellectually, she knew that PTSD was a possible outcome of an event like tonight, but emotionally she just couldn’t accept it. She’d been through so much, throughout her life, and she’d never displayed any signs of PTSD. And now that she had been involuntarily dropped in _fucking_ _**Fantasyland**_ , it suddenly manifested. _Fuck this shit!_ Anger tore through her at the realisation that she was up shit creek sans the paddle, where her psyche was concerned. Her going all psycho on Thorin, earlier, and not really remembering any of it, contributed to that fact. Thorin was right, she did pose a danger to his Quest. Maybe just not in the way he thought. It wasn’t her origins that posed the risk, it was her sudden lack of mental stability.

On top of it all, her brain had started to provide images that were just as horrific, but also very different from the events of the night. They were vaguer; as if seen through a thick fog. Also, they were sketchier; as if parts of them were completely missing. They jumped from impression to impression. And her brain jumped with it, _bam_ , images of the night, _bam_ , other... visuals... memories? _Bam_. More of tonight. _Bam_. Back to the unfamiliar sights. She was sure they weren’t memories. They had just showed up out of nowhere, and she couldn’t connect them to any other event in her life. For as far as she could remember -which was quite far back-, she’d always had a kind of eidetic memory and easily recalled lots of things, from her early childhood -hell, she could vaguely remember the orphanage where she’d lived the first eighteen months of her life-, up until this day, when she’d apparently attacked Thorin. Which she didn’t quite remember. At all. Which, in turn, worried her immensely. 

A shiver wracked her body, and she groaned softly, closing her eyes. She slapped a flat hand against the ground a few times in powerless anger at her own weakness as the whole horrific movie in her brain started again. She hissed when she another shiver travelled down her spine. She felt cold; the hard ground underneath her sleeping mat poking through into her side where there were a few larger rocks. She hadn’t dared to crawl into her sleeping bag, worried that she wouldn’t be able to get out of it in time if another attack occurred. So, she’d zipped it open, and used it as a blanket. It didn’t do much to keep the cold out like that. Where she’d been toasty warm on previous nights, she now lay shivering.

_Fucking cold spring nights!_

_Fucking stupid brain!_

_Fucking stupid good for nothing body! Fucking freezing up at a fucking stupid moment! Where’s your training now, huh? You stupid fucking bitch! Always so arrogant in your stupid fucking self assuredness! Can’t even defend yourself against a few men. Forgetting your training like that! Weakling! You deserved what happened to you! Whore!_

_Shut up! Shut **up**! **Shut UP!**_

Squeezing her eyes shut even tighter, and curling in on herself, she started to repetitively thump the right side of her head against the sleeping mat, trying to rid herself of the self-loathing that radiated throughout her body, and of the images that played on repeat inside her mind. The resulting pain dulled the emotions. But only slightly. _‘Shut up... shut up... shut up... shut up.’_ It was a quietly whispered mantra that was spoken in time with the thumps against the mat.

She didn’t even realise that she was doing it, until there was suddenly a warm hand under her temple and cheekbone, catching her head on the downward motion, cushioning it on impact.

A shock went through her at the sudden and unfamiliar touch. Her hand flew to her dagger and it was out of its sheath and against a jugular before she had time to blink open her eyes. She heard a swift intake of breath from her ‘assailant’. _Well, at least her reflexes still worked._

_Too little, too **late!**_

‘ _Don’t. ’_ The word was softly spoken, in a deep rumble, but it conveyed such sympathy and warmth, and at the same time such authoritativeness, that it was a balm to her battered and bruised psyche. _Thorin_.

How one word could have so many different meanings in that one moment, she didn’t know. But it did.

_Don’t hurt yourself. Don’t blame yourself. Don’t be afraid. Don’t give up. Don’t lose yourself. Don’tleave. Don’t use that fucking dagger._

She lowered the dagger from where it had almost cut into the side of his neck, and turned her head towards him. The soft skin of her cheek caught slightly on the caloused skin of his fingers. Slowly, she raised her eyes and met his steel blue gaze, which was almost black in the darkness of night. He was closer to her than she should be comfortable with, especially after all that had happened, but the Dwarf King somehow succeeded in keeping his body language as non-threatening as possible, while still being kneeled next to her prostrate form.

Another tremor shook her body, and she hissed in discomfort.

‘ _You are cold._ ’ He stated the obvious. Although she was cold in more ways than one, she nodded at his simple determination of bodily discomfort. She was thankful for the distraction he provided; taking her focus away from her treacherous brain.

‘ _Will you allow me to help you get warm?_ ’ Her face must have betrayed both her surprise and her revulsion at his proposition, because he quickly added, _‘I will not touch you. We can share the blanket... Look...’_ He took his hand away from under her face, and divested himself of his coat and spread it out next to her sleeping mat. He then proceeded to lay down on the coat, turning his back to her, pillowing his head with his left arm, while pulling part of her sleeping bag over himself with his right hand, taking care to leave her the lion’s share of the narrow down comforter. _‘Like this...’_ His whisper trailed off into silence.

‘Oh.’ Was all she could force out through a blockage in her throat. Her body was so tense that she was almost vibrating from it. Every muscle was primed for a fight or flight reflex; adrenalin ricocheting through her veins.

‘I will not hurt you.’ He must have noticed her tenseness. His tone of voice was reassuring and sounded almost like a vow. ‘I will not touch you. And I will not allow anyone near you. You will catch your death if you do not get warm, and it would be a shame if you were bested by a simple cold, after a whole group of seasoned warriors failed to do so. You have proven your worth tonight and I will not lose you to something as easily resolved as low body temperature.’

In spite of everything, she let out a snort of amusement at the dryly spoken last sentence; disdain at such a wasteful and unworthy death shining through in his voice.

‘Alright.’ She agreed, forcing herself to breathe through the discomfort of having someone so close to her exposed back. It didn’t matter that she was wearing her body armour and her jacket, she still felt exposed. She could feel how the air under the sleeping bag started to warm from the King’s body heat, and had to admit that the warmth had already started to seep into her body, helping her relax her, by now, painful and trembling muscles.

She hugged her arms around herself and stared wide-eyed into the darkness as she listened to Thorin’s breathing evening out. The Dwarf exuded warmth like a space-heater. No wonder that his people never seemed cold at night. They ran warmer than regular people. Not that she was complaining. The heat at her back went a long way in calming her down and loosening her tightly strung body. Even her brain seemed more quiet now. She was able to shut down the most damaging and destructive thoughts.

It took her a long time, but eventually, after staring straight ahead for what seemed like hours, her eyes became heavy and fell shut as she sunk into unconsciousness.


	10. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Prancing Pony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing owned, nothing gained.
> 
> Not beta’d, spelling and grammar mistakes are my own.
> 
> This is my Sandbox. I like playing around in ME. :)

Chapter 9

 

Three days later, they passed through a town called Bree. With two e’s. Not like brie, which was the french soft cheese she liked so much. Hearing the town’s name being mentioned, had brought on a craving for the gooey food stuff, though. Sabra wondered if they had something alike it in this godforsaken town... Probably not. She had been down on her luck ever since she’d tumbled down that Afghan mountain, which was now just over a week ago, and it hadn’t been looking up.

The morning after the attack, they’d broken up camp early, and halfway through the morning a drizzle had started, which didn’t let up for at least a day. After that, it had only gotten worse, and they’d been riding through a downpour for the past forty-eight hours or so. Everything was soaked. And if it wasn’t, it was uncomfortably damp. Like the shirt that stuck to her back where the rain had trailed down her neck and under the collar of her ‘waterproof’ coat. So much for the hood keeping out the rain; it had started seeping through the so-called sealed stitching at the back of her head. She was grateful that her boots had kept her feet warm and dry, at least... Well, mostly.

The town’s roads were wet and muddy, with browns and greys being the predominant colours throughout the settlement. The houses were made from wood and had seen better days. It was a ragtag collection of buildings that seemed to lean against their neighbours, keeping each other up. Planks rotting from the ground up, and sometimes even missing in places. Quite a depressing sight if you asked her. The stench of rot permeated the air, along with other odours she didn’t want to think about.

Wondering if this was what the Middle Ages had smelled like, she wrinkled her nose when a particularly offending whiff of latrine attacked her olfactory senses. _Fuckin’ hell... How do the people here not keel over from the stench alone?_

Over the past week, she’d become somewhat accustomed to the body odours of the males in the company, probably also because she didn’t smell as fresh as she used to anymore, either, but the stink of this ‘Town of Man’ really was something else. It went above and beyond anything she’d ever encountered on her travels. And she’d been assigned to quite a few shitholes in her time.

She looked straight ahead when men and women, dressed in depressingly threadbare browns and greys, stopped in the streets to stare at the group of dwarves as they rode through the town, suspicion and curiosity in their expressions. Whispers accompanied their small caravan, until they halted at an inn. It consisted of a ground floor and two more storeys above. On the upper two floors, there were lots of windows along the walls. In contrast to the other houses of the town, the Inn was sturdily built from grey stone on the ground and first levels, with a second level added in wood, and above that a shingle tiled roof.

 _‘The Prancing Pony_ ’, She read under her breath from the shield-like sign that hung above the door. Wasn’t this the same place Frodo and Sam, and their friends, had stayed in, during the Fellowship of the Ring movie? She had to admit that she’d watched the movies with Frodo more often than those of the story that she’d somehow gotten herself tangled up in. It might or might not have had something to do with a certain blonde haired Orlando Bloom, who had been about her age -okay, slightly older- at the time that the first movie came out. Twenty-year-old her had been a sucker for the Elven prince.

Fili and Kili were on horse duty, and after dismounting and taking down her pack and her weapons, she handed over the reigns of her pony to Thorin’s dark haired nephew, who proceeded to lead his share of the horses off through an archway, into the courtyard of the Inn, where the stables were located.

At first, Thorin had been adamant to leave the town behind as fast as possible, not wanting to waste any time, but after three days of rain and cold, he had been quite easily persuaded by his company -mostly his nephews- to allow a stay of at least one night at the Inn, where they could dry up next to a warm hearth and eat a hearty meal... or three.

It was only an hour past mid-day when they stepped into the gloomy main room of the Inn. There was a bar to their left, and a large hearth with a blazing open fire to the back of the room. Apart from the Inn-keeper and one or two men who looked like regulars, almost permanent fixtures on their perch at the bar, the Inn was empty. Which suited the group of dwarves very well. They had their pick of tables, chairs, and benches.

Within minutes, the tables were rearranged so that everyone had a seat close to the hearth and a chance to dry their outer clothes. Four man-high racks, two on either side of the hearth were utilised as drying racks. Everyone’s outer clothes were being neatly hung by Ori, who was taking care that none of the coats and capes lay over one another, thus ensuring that the clothes had equal chances at drying out. It wasn’t long before a light vapour started to rise from the soaked cloth. And the smell of wet dog started to mingle with the smell of stale ale and freshly baked bread that hung around the Inn.

The latter smell caused Sabra’s stomach to rumble loudly. Next to her, Bofur snickered.

‘Sounds like ye could use some sustenance, little sister.’ He had removed his hat to dry it on one of the racks, next to where she’d hung her body armour, and his dark hair was standing up at odd angles in some places and wetly sticking to his head in others. He’d started to call her ‘little sister’ two days ago, and had stuck to her side ever since; teasing her and pulling her out of her funk whenever she sank into the darkness inside her head. Whereas the other dwarves, barring Thorin -who had been his usual grumpy, but considerate, self-, had been walking on eggshells around her. Giving her wide berth whenever she was near. She much preferred Bofur’s approach. It made her feel more normal, and less of a burden.

‘Oh, shut up. You arse.’ She grumbled goodnaturedly as she lightly elbowed him in the side in retaliation. There was no bite behind her actions. She was much too happy with the blazing heat at her back that was drying her shirt rapidly and warming her from the outside in, to be acting dick-ish. Bofur let out a chuckle and stood up.

‘Let’s see if I can procure us some lunch.’ He turned to Bilbo, who was sitting at his other side. ‘Ye want some, too, Bilbo?’

The Hobbit looked up at the Dwarf and smiled.

‘Yes, please. Some bread and cheese would be very welcome, thank you, Bofur.’

Bofur grinned brightly and nodded, before making his way to the bar, where both Thorin and Balin were already conversing with the Inn-keeper. Sabra saw a few coins change hands and Thorin was handed four large metal keys. Her friend exchanged a few words with his King and received a nod, before Thorin’s gaze travelled to where she was silently sitting at the table. Her eyes met his for a fraction of a second and then he turned back to the Inn-keeper and started some kind of other negotiation, after which a few more coins changed hands, again in favor of the Inn-keeper.

There was a bounce in Bofur’s step when he returned to the table.

‘Lunch is on its way. And I have it on good authority that we will all be havin’ a bath after that... Starting with _you_!’ He pointed to Sabra.

‘What?’ Sabra stared at the giddy Dwarf, flabbergasted.

‘Wellll, I might have suggested that the only female in our company would probably immensely appreciate a chance to bathe, after having to live and travel with fifteen stinky males for the past week.’ He grinned mischievously.

‘ _What_?’

‘It wasn’t completely selfless, mind you. I might have bartered a few more warm baths out of that first one. So, now we all get to profit from your presence in our company.’ 

‘ _What_?’

‘You’re repeating yourself, little sister.’

‘You used my presence to blackmail your King into procuring baths for all of you?’ She frowned at him.

‘Now, lass, doona use such a heavy word. I wouldn’t call it blackmail, per se. Just a little push in the right direction...’ Bofur stroked his moustache contemplatively before grinning at her disarmingly.

Sabra shook her head and grumbled.

‘That’s not right, Bofur.’ She suddenly stood and walked over to Thorin and Balin.

‘Lass, do not foul up our chance of havin’ a warm bath...’ She heard Bofur pleadingly lament behind her.

Thorin looked up from where he was conversing with Balin when she came closer.

‘Mistress Ashford. Is something amiss?’ He narrowed his eyes when he noticed her less than pleased expression. After the night of the attack he had reverted to the formal use of her last name and she’d just left it. If the Dwarf King felt like he needed to create a distance between himself and other people, then so be it.

Clearing her throat, she greeted the two dwarves with a nod.

‘King Thorin. Balin.’ Then she turned to the King. ‘It’s come to my attention that you may have been coerced into procuring all of us baths, and me being used as the catalyst. I’ve come to tell you that it’s not necessary.’

Thorin’s frown disappeared and the corners of his mouth tilted up minutely.

‘I beg to differ.’ He said. Next to him, Balin hid his mouth behind his hand to cover up a smile, but she could see his eyes twinkling.

Sabra blinked. And studied the King’s expression. Was he laughing at her? The Dwarf had a fantastic poker face. Except for the small tremor at the corners of his mouth. Wait... Was he saying that she needed a bath?

‘Is that your way of saying that I stink?’ Her voice went up as she ended the question, and she managed to sound very insulted, and not a little bit rude. _Fuck._

‘I am merely pointing out that we all stink. And thus we will all bathe today. Do not worry, I did notice Bofur’s scheming. He will be bathing last.’

A chuckle escaped her at his deadpan tone.

‘How many baths are there?’

‘Three.’

‘Poor Bofur.’

The King shook his head; staying resolved in his decision to discipline the Dwarf under his command.

‘Do not pity him. It was dishonourable of him to use your name for his own gain.’

Sighing, Sabra frowned at him, feeling slightly offended on behalf of her friend.

‘He was only trying to help.’

‘Still, he could have come to me on his own volition. Instead he decided to play tricks. He will bathe last.’ She could hear from the tone of his voice that Thorin was done talking about the other Dwarf.

Not feeling like making a scene in the middle of the Inn, she decided to let it go. She was too cold, and wet, and hungry, and tired, to argue with him at that moment.

‘Alright.’ Nodding, she stepped back and made to turn around, when a hand was laid on her arm. She tensed and her hand flexed toward her dagger at the same time as her gaze flew up to Thorin’s. His expression was calm, but his eyes were wary and tired. Somehow it made her heart squeeze in sympathy for the King and the burdens he carried.

‘You will bathe first. The Inn-keeper’s daughter will fetch you when your bath is ready. She will assist you and have clean clothes for you to borrow. Give her your dirty clothes, and she will bring them to the washer-women to clean. They will be delivered back to our room by the morning.’

That last sentence had her do a double take at the King.

‘Our room?’ Had she heard that right?

Thorin nodded solemnly, not catching her discomfort at his remark.

‘I have rented four rooms, with four beds each, for tonight. You will be sharing one with Bofur, myself, and Gandalf.’

‘Ah. Right.’ That made sense. More sense than suddenly being expected to share a room with solely him... ‘Okay.’

Pulling his hand away from her arm -did she detect reluctance?- he nodded at her stiffly, and turned back to his conversation with Balin.

Alright. Apparently, she’d been dismissed.

She turned away from the two dwarves and returned to her seat, conveying Thorin’s decree to Bofur.

Bofur was not happy.

But that was easily fixed when not five minutes later, a luncheon feast was delivered to their tables. There was freshly baked bread, a selection of cheeses, slices of cold roast chicken, and cups of tasty, sweet ale. Bofur’s funk was all but forgotten when he caught sight of the food and drink that was to be their lunch.

Sabra laughed at his joyful expression as he tore into a piece of chicken.

‘You should try the chicken, Sabra! It’s wonderful!’ He exclaimed with his mouth full.

Chuckling, she started loading her wooden plate with bread and cheese, happy that the over all mood of the company had been completely turned around, from wet misery to happiness and humour within ten minutes. And all that had been needed was a warm fire and a full belly.

She had nearly finished her plate of food and her cup of ale, when a young, chubby woman with beautiful dark brown curls approached her. The woman curtsied.

‘Mistress, your bath is ready.’ She seemed a bit shy, but friendly.

‘Alright, lead the way, miss.’ Picking up her backpack, she followed the woman out of the back of the Inn, and into the courtyard. The rain had turned into a light drizzle, and when she looked up, Sabra could make out lighter spots between the over all dark grey clouds. Maybe it would be looking up tomorrow. She hoped so.

The Inn-keepers daughter led her into a wooden structure that had three baths positioned around a large open fire in a stone firepit. Over the fire hung a large pot in which the water for another bath was being heated.

There was one bath that was already filled, and Sabra couldn’t wait to submerge herself into the steaming water.

She hesitantly allowed the other woman to help her undress, and, with a contented sigh, stepped into the bath. Hanging her holstered knives over the edge of the bath -there was no way she was ever parting with those again-, she allowed the Inn-keeper’s daughter to take away her dirty clothes, after she had shown her where she’d left the clothes Sabra was borrowing. The woman also reassured her that she would keep watch at the door, so that no-one would enter and disturb her bath.

Forcing herself to relax, Sabra leaned back and sunk under the water to wash.


	11. Portrait of sabra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey peepz!
> 
> I made a quick drawing of how I see Sabra. It’s over on my Tumblr. I’m Messy-Insomniac-Bookgirl there, too.

[Sabra](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/messy-insomniac-bookgirl)

It’s just a quick drawing, so don’t expect too much. ;)


	12. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Corsets suck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing, except my OFC, and parts of the story you don’t recognise.
> 
> I make no money from this story.
> 
> This is my Sandbox.
> 
> ————————————
> 
> A bit of a lighter chapter :)

Chapter 10

 

If she’d thought she’d manage to put on the borrowed clothes all on her own, then she’d been terribly mistaken. 

The Inn-keeper’s daughter had explained that the borrowed dress had been her deceased mother’s, and it had been kept immaculate for special occasions. Which also meant that it was eleborate in the amount of layers it possessed.

Sabra had no idea how women in these times moved in such dresses. Or breathed. How were there _any_ women _left_?!

The young woman had helped her don a pair of loose pantaloons, followed by a thin, linen, shift-like dress-a-ma-thingie with a low neckline. Which had been followed by a corset. A torture device the CIA would pay cold hard cash for if they discovered its hellish uses. Sabra was sure of it.

She now had a waist-circumference that looked like it belonged on a six year old girl, so much had it been compressed by the corset’s ribs, and her tits were being pushed up to where her clavicles were supposed to be.

And still, the woman pulled the corset strings tighter.

Gasping for breath, Sabra held up a hand.

‘ _Please_ , Hilda, no more. Can’t... breathe.’ She panted.

‘But, Mistress, it is supposed to be tighter than this.’ Exasperation was clearly heard in the voice of the young woman behind her.

‘Please, leave it. I’ll just have to live with society’s disapproval.’ Groaning, Sabra tried to pull the contraption away from her chest. Just to try and gulp in a lungful of air. Sweet, sweet oxygen. The stink didn’t even matter anymore.

The Inn-keeper’s daughter tutted disapprovingly, and Sabra wondered how she could have ever thought that this demon from hell was a sweet, shy girl. Mind you, she really was a nice girl, but her opinions on what was proper dress for a woman did not coincide with Sabra’s. At all.

After tying off the corset strings, she helped Sabra into a kind of peasant blouse that also had a low neckline and left her shoulders bare. The long, puffy sleeves had slits along their whole lengths that were tied closed at the elbows, leaving spectators to catch glances of her arms when she moved a certain way. After that, she was encouraged to step into three petticoats, before the last piece of clothing was pulled over her head; the dress, consisting of a wide, dark blue skirt and a lighter blue bodice, both of a finely woven wool, which closed in the front with a lace string. The skirts were too long for her to walk in properly, but Hilda had brought some sort of small contraptions that held her skirts up in the front, so she could walk without breaking her neck every other step. Hilda also helped her attach her dagger to her thigh and then she was ready. She took a few steps and twirled the wide skirts as the Inn-keepers daughter let out a delighted laugh and clapped her hands in happiness.

Sabra was out of breath from the twirling alone.

_Fuck, this is going to be a long night..._

_Oomph... Breathe..._

By the time she emerged from the bath house, backpack and holstered weapons slung over one shoulder, Hilda following behind her, it was almost two hours later, and there were three seemingly very impatient Dwarves standing outside.

She heard a few grumbled ‘finally’s coming from them, but, over all, they were in a good mood. The food and warmth had done wonders, and the fact that it had stopped raining must have helped, too.

‘Well, go on then.’ She encouraged Fili and Kili, who were standing next to the doorway. Balin had already gone inside after greeting her. It was only then that she noticed how both young Dwarves were staring at her with wide eyes. She looked down at her dress, checking if everything was still in place. It was. She looked back at the brothers. ‘What?’ She asked, tilting her head with a slightly inquisitive smile playing on her lips.

‘You’re... you’re a woman.’ Kili stammered, his ears and cheeks turning pink.

‘Uh... Yes. You already know that.’ He’d seen her in her underwear not a week ago, for cryin’ out loud. Frowning, she laid a hand on his forehead to check for a fever. He was talking nonsense. His skin was cool to the touch. No fever.

‘No, I mean, yes... But you... you’re a _woman_.’ The last word was spoken with so much gusto that it took her quite a bit of self-control to not burst out laughing. _Oh dear. A smitten baby Dwarf._

Sabra raised an eyebrow at the stuttering youngster. She had an inkling of where this conversation was going, and she wasn’t having it. Her voice was stern when she answered the cheeky lad.

‘You already said that. And you’ve known that for eight days. Me wearing a dress shouldn’t be making any fuckin’ difference in how you see me, you bloody plonker. Now, please, go take a bath, before you say something that earns you a spanking from your uncle. Or worse, an arsekicking from me. And whatever is flying around in that manky brain of yours, it’s never going to happen.’ Kili looked slightly confused at her use of wording and quite disappointed at her frank dismissal of his clumsy flirtation.

Fili had had the good sense to keep his mouth shut, and he grabbed his bumbling younger brother by the back of the neck before forcing him to walk into the bath house. He flashed Sabra a grin over his shoulder.

‘Sorry ‘bout my brother, Sabra. He sometimes loses his head when he sees a beautiful woman.’ With that, he stepped in after his sibling and kicked the door shut behind him.

Chuckling at the older sibling’s cheekiness, Sabra stepped down the bath house steps and made her way back to the rear entrance of the Inn.

Stepping inside, she noticed that it had become quite a bit busier in the Inn during the time she’d been bathing. She estimated that it was nearing four or five in the afternoon, and more travellers and regular patrons were arriving. The tables and chairs in the main room of the Inn were almost all occupied and the Inn-keeper was behind his desk, checking in guests for the Inn’s rooms, as Hilda and a male server were busy with bringing out food and drink for their customers.

When she came up to where the company of Dwarves had been sitting at the fire place, she drew up short. The tables and chairs had all been returned to their previous positions and were occupied by strangers. Also, the drying racks by the fire had none of the Dwarves’ outer clothing drying on it anymore. Even her own coat and armour were missing.

Confused, she stood to the side of the room and looked around, seeing if she could spot any of her companions in the throng of people milling about. It wasn’t the first time that she cursed her own short stature. Most people there were much taller than she was, even the women, and she had trouble overseeing the whole Inn from where she stood.

Mingling with the patrons, she made a sweep of the room. Eventually she came to the conclusion that her whole group had disappeared. They’d probably gone to their rooms. She hoped that they were the ones who had taken her armour and her coat and not some sneaky pickpocket.

Seeing Hilda walking towards her, carrying two plates of food, she waved down the woman. Hilda smiled at her.

‘Everything alright, Mistress Sabra?’

‘Um, yes, but, could you tell me where our rooms are located? Everyone seems to have retired for the afternoon.’ Sabra gestured towards where the Dwarves had been sitting by the fire earlier.

Hilda glanced to where she pointed and frowned.

‘Ah, yes, I see. It’s best if you join them, Mistress. The Inn can get quite rowdy when it gets later in the day. Inebriated men have lower inhibitions and it can become uncomfortable for women if they are unaccompanied. Ask my father about the rooms he rented to your group. I know not which ones he has placed you in.’

Sabra had to swallow away a biting comment about antiquated social constructs. Hilda knew no different and wouldn’t understand her sudden causticity.

‘I will do that, thank you, Hilda. I will see you at supper.’

The young woman smiled and gave a small curtsey, impressively balancing the food on the laden plates.

‘Of course, Mistress Sabra. Enjoy your afternoon.’

With that last greeting, she hastily made her way to the customers who had been waiting for her to deliver their food, and Sabra went to seek out the Prancing Pony’s proprietor.

She found him talking to a couple of men by the bar and walked up to them. She waited for a lull in their conversation before addressing the Inn-keeper.

‘Excuse me, Master Butterbur?’

The Inn-keeper turned his attention to her and bowed his head to her respectfully.

‘How can I help you, Mistress Ashford?’

The tall men he’d been talking to had also turned her way, and were observing her with interest. And although they seemed non-threatening, the hairs on the back of her neck still stood up in reaction. She made sure that she could still see them from the corner of her eyes as she talked to the proprietor.

‘Have you seen my friends? They have disappeared on me.’

The man nodded.

‘Ah, yes. They went up to their rooms.’ He dove behind the bar and came back up with a key in his hand. ‘Your friend left this for you. The room number is on the keychain. You’re on the top floor.’ Handing her the key, he smiled jovially.

One of the men next to her had apparently decided that he wanted a conversation with her. He bent down towards her slightly to get her attention. His breath reeked of stale ale when he spoke. _He must have downed half the Inn’s stores already._ She thought disdainfully as she leant away from him a bit.

‘Will ye be stayin’ long in Bree?’ His speech was already slurred and it was not even suppertime yet.

Sabra wrinkled her nose and frowned when she turned to him.

‘ _ **Not**_ interested.’ Was all she said, and walked away after giving a respectful nod to Master Butterbur.

The man’s friends, who were just as inebriated as he was, burst out laughing at her quick and brutal rebuff of his advances.

‘Aw, doona be like that, lass! Let us buy you an ale! Pretty little thing like you shouldna be alone!’ One of them called after her. The others bellowed approvingly. She heard one making a very annoying kissing sound.

Shaking her head and cursing under her breath about their highly irritating behaviour, she quickly made her way to the entrance hallway where she’d seen the stairs up to the higher floors.

Looking up the steep stairway, she took as deep a breath as she could with the corset like a tight band around her ribcage and waist, and began climbing it. By the time she’d reached the first floor, she was panting. Leaning against the bannister, she tried to gulp in as much oxygen as she could for her trip up the second set of stairs. She was passed by an elderly man who stared at her as if she was the most flabbergasting thing he’d seen in his life. Knowing it was petty and childish, she stuck out her tongue at his back. It made her feel marginally better.

Alright, time for the next hurdle. Gripping the rope that was attached to the wall as a handhold, she pulled herself up the first few steps while breathing as deeply as she could. Cursing at her own weakness, she hauled herself up the last few metres, which resulted in black spots dancing at the edge of her vision.

By the time she turned the key in the lock of the room she’d be sharing with Gandalf, Bofur, and Thorin, she was clawing at the ribbon that held her dress closed. She was going to get out of the corset, fuck all that was and wasn’t accepted around these lands.

Almost falling into the room when the door opened more easily than she’d expected, she pulled at the corset that was now visible below the neckline of the blouse and loosened dress.

‘How the _fuck_ do I get this _off_?!’ She growled to herself, looking down at the hellish contraption that had started to dig into the flesh of her hips. No doubt she’d have welts all over her torso from the rigid bone ribs, in spite of having a shift dress under it to protect her skin.

The bodice of the dress fell away when she finished de-ribbonning it and shrugged it off her shoulders, pulling out her arms from the arm-holes.

When she started to pull the hem of the blouse from where it was tucked into the dress, she heard someone clear their throat. She froze and looked up. Straight into the bewildered blue eyes of the Dwarf King, who was lounging on one of the beds, barefoot, and in a blue linen tunic and blue leather trousers.

_Um..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Positive feedback is appreciated. So are kudos ^_^


	13. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Corsets and Arguments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own no thing.
> 
> I make no coin.
> 
> This is the epic Sandbox. :)

Chapter 11

 

Thorin raised his eyebrows at her strange behaviour and gestured at her state of undress.

‘What _are_ you doing?’

Sabra huffed indignantly.

‘I’m _trying_ to breathe. But this evil piece of crap won’t let me.’ Slapping her belly with a flat hand, she frowned at Thorin. ‘Please tell me that you know how to take off one of these torture devices? I’m sure that you have helped women out of them before?’ Then she noticed that the room was empty, apart form her and Thorin. She glanced around before looking back at the Dwarf. ‘Where is everyone?’

Was it her imagination, or had the Dwarf King gone slightly pink under his beard and tanned skin?

He cleared his throat again as he sat up from where he’d been leaning against a pillow at the headboard of his bed, and slung his legs over the side, putting his feet on the wood floor.

‘Bofur is visiting with his brother and cousin, and Gandalf had to go see someone about some herbs.’

She snorted. _Riiiiiiiiight_.

‘Uh-huh... _herbs_...’ It wouldn’t surprise her if the old codger mixed some stronger stuff through his pipe weed sometimes.

‘Yes. Herbs.’ Thorin stood up from where he was perched on the bed and walked to where she was still standing amid the weapons and backpack she’d flung to the floor when she came in. ‘Now, what is it that has you cursing and clawing at your attire like you just did?’ His voice was low and gentle as he grasped the shoulder of her blouse between his fingers and pulled it up, so it covered her a bit more demurely.

Her hands came up automatically to hold the neckline in place. It was then that she noticed how close he was standing; and how, for a dwarf, Thorin was quite tall. So tall, actually, that he had two inches on her, at least; even when he was barefoot and she was in her boots. And what she had earlier thought was bulk from wearing so many layers below and over his armour, was, in fact, all Thorin.

The strings of the linen tunic he was wearing had been loosened by the neck and the open v-shape showed part of his defined upper chest, which was sprinkled with dark hair. Licking her lips nervously, she tried to look away from how the cloth strained around his broad shoulders as he moved. Where the tunic was rolled up at his elbows, she could see the thick cords of muscle that contracted and released beneath the skin of his forearm when he pulled back his hand. Compared to her own forearms, his were at least twice as wide, if not more; and so were his hands in comparison to hers. His whole stature exuded strength and competence. When her gaze met his, she saw how the blue of his eyes had darkened and how he somehow seemed to tower over her.

_Danger! Fight!_

Her posture stiffened involuntarily, and she swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. She took a small step back, looking away from him. Rationally she knew that the King wouldn’t hurt her, but her instincts were off. Ever since _that_ night. Now, when someone was too big, too close, too much, loud warning bells started to go off in her head. Even if it was unwarranted, like this moment, and she had to fight the urge to lash out.

Hell, Thorin was probably just annoyed by her inclination to start flinging off her clothes at any given time, without warning and without any consideration for the sensibilities of everyone around her. Especially because she had apparently landed in the “Land of Medieval Times”.

The smell of male sweat, leather, a woodsy scent, and something else, something muskier, entered her nose when she inhaled sharply. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it made nerves explode in her gut. Twitching slightly, Sabra tried to keep calm.

‘I... Um...’ She croaked, swallowing again when a shiver went down her spine. ‘Hilda, the Inn-keeper’s daughter. She put me in this corset, and she pulled it so tight. I have trouble breathing. I need to take it off, it’s suffocating me. Could you... Um... Please...’ She gestured at her back, towards where the fastening of the infernal corset was located underneath the blouse.

She really, _really_ wanted to get out of the thing, but with the way she was feeling now, she wasn’t sure if she could tolerate a male at her exposed back, and she didn’t want a violent break-down like she’d had... _then_.

The Dwarf in front of her stood there silently for a long time. So long, even, that she looked back up at him to see what it was that kept him so quiet. Meeting his gaze, she noticed how his expression was inquisitive. He looked at her as if he couldn’t quite figure her out. Then he noticed her own curious gaze, and the expression was gone; his face became expressionless before his mouth was pulled in a straight line, lips thinning. He frowned.

‘I must say, this is _highly_ inappropriate.’ His tone was disapproving. ‘It is not decent for a female to ask a male for help with undressing, unless he is her husband, or she is a...’ He quickly shut his mouth when he saw Sabra’s sharp look and he realised what he was about to say.

‘You _better_ not finish that sentence.’ She said with a bite to her voice. ‘Fine, I’ll find one of the others to do it. Wouldn’t want your kingly sensibilities to be damaged. Don’t know why you’re suddenly such a prude, though. You’ve seen me in far less than this. _Multiple_ times. _Fucker_.’ Suddenly fuming, she turned around to open the door. 

‘ _No!_ ’ A large hand pushed against the door next to her head, slamming it back shut from where it had opened to a crack.

Turning back around, Sabra pushed against him, hand to his chest. He barely moved. Fucking Dwarves and their fuckin’ heavy ass weight.

‘ _Excuse you?!_ You have no say in where I go, your _Majesty_. You are _not_ my husband.’ She pushed him again, just for good measure. He still didn’t budge, which was impressive, because she wasn’t holding back on her strength. ‘And even if you were, I wouldn’t fuckin’ listen to you. If I’d ever marry anyone, I would do so as an _equal_ , to someone who would trust me to make the right judgment about things concerning my body and my life, and not as some subservient little female like the ones males in this fuckin’ world seem to like so much. I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions without any male interference. Now, if you don’t mind, I am going to get out of this damn corset. With, or without your help.’ She gripped the doorhandle, but the door wouldn’t budge. There was once again a large hand pushing against it. _Fuck dammit!_

From the heat at her back, she felt how close he was standing. Being boxed in like this made her jittery, and her hand crept to where her dagger was hidden under her skirt. A tremble went through her body when he grunted an answer next to her ear.

‘ _With_.’

She dove under his outstretched arm and twirled around to have her front to him while the rest of the empty room was at her back.

‘What?’ Tilting her head, she took in his tense posture.

As he turned to her, she could almost see him vibrate with anger. _Wow. Intense._ She swallowed. Had she gone too far? She almost expected him to draw his sword and run her through, if she was to go by the look he gave her.

‘With. Me.’ He said from between his teeth. ‘I will assist you. Now, turn. around.’ Those last words were such a command that she had to push away the urge to rebel, no matter how tempting it was. Best not to aggravate him any further, otherwise he might be tempted to leave her here when the company moved on, and then where would she be?

‘Don’t think I wouldn’t stab you if you tried anything untoward, King or not.’ She couldn’t help saying as she pulled off the blouse over her head and held it against her front.

‘You wouldn’t be fast enough to stab me.’ He grunted. No matter the anger that she could feel radiating off of him, in contrast, the way he handled loosening the string that held together the corset, was gentle and careful. He never even touched her, in spite of the string being pulled very tight and getting tangled in a few places.

‘Try me.’ She challenged. Breathing became easier as Thorin worked his way down the corset, pulling out the string from the eyelets, and she sighed in relief. The ease with which he loosened the corset confirmed her presumption that he’d done it before. She was sure that somewhere under that grumpy, up tight exterior hid a smooth bastard who’d had quite a few adventures in his lifetime.

‘I’d rather not.’

It took her a moment to realise he was talking about her stabbing him. She cleared her throat and nodded.

‘Good call.’

He hummed, and then the corset fell away from her body.

‘Oh, thank fuck.’ She breathed and let her head hang forward.

Behind her she heard a creak of a wooden bed. Apparently Thorin had decided to make himself scarce as soon as his task was done.

She looked at him and saw that he was back to reclining on the bed, holding a book.

Pretending to read.

‘Your book is upside down.’ She deadpanned. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, but said nothing. Turning the book the right side up, he went on pretending to read, staring at the page so hard, she was surprised it didn’t catch fire from the intensity of his scowl.

Then she took pity on him... a bit.

‘Thank you. For your help.’

Thorin just grunted something and proceeded to ignore her while she put the blouse back on and then her dress to rights. She had to admit that the dress felt a bit more snug, now, but she’d take that over a corset any day.

Picking up her backpack and her discarded weapons, she looked around the room.

‘So, which bed is mine?’ Her tone was deliberately light.

The Dwarf King didn’t say anything, but just pointed at the bed that was oposite to his, between an empty bed and the window. Then he continued ‘reading’.

‘Great.’ She said, and stowed the pack and her rifle under the bed, laying the holstered karambit knives under the lumpy pillow.

Sitting down on her bed, she concluded that it was a luxury to have it for the night and proceeded to lay down on top of the blankets. Turning her head on the pillow, she looked at the sky outside the window. Grey clouds and patches of blue alternated behind the windowpanes.

Slowly, she felt her eyelids become heavier, and before she knew it, she was asleep

 


	14. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nighmares and Cheekiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing owned, nothing gained from this story.
> 
> OFC and parts of the story you don’t recognise are mine.
> 
> This is my Middle Earthy Sandbox. It’s a MES... XD

Chapter 12

 

Being startled awake from a nightmare by a heavy hand that landed on her shoulder and shook her, didn’t go down very well with her still half-unconscious psyche. She opened her eyes and saw a large form loom over her in the darkness. Evening had fallen and everything was shrouded in shadow. The images in her mind overlayed the dark shapes in the room and there were monsters everywhere. Not monsters of the human kind, but monsters the likes of which she had never seen before. Terrifying and beastly creatures circled her. They towered over her and she was too small.

She cried out in fear. She was sat on the rocky ground, bawling her eyes out, dirty clothes ripped, and all around her were the sounds and sights of battle. Blood splattered and anguished bellows were heard. She did not want to be here anymore!

Then there was a warm touch to her forehead, and a soothing old voice said something in a language she didn’t know. A feeling of light and relief filled her, and Sabra pulled in a gasp of air. Her lungs felt as if it was the first in a long, long time. Had she been suffocating in her sleep? Dizziness fell over her and she had trouble regaining her bearings. With wildly flailing arms, she sat up straight. Blinking, she took in her surroundings. Someone had lit a candle and a warm yellowish light played over the furniture and the occupants of the room.

Standing over her, having just retracted his hand from her forehead, was Gandalf. A deeply contemplative expression graced his face as he gazed upon her.

At the foot of her bed stood Thorin. He looked torn between relief, worry, and suspicion, when he focused his gaze on her and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

‘ _Who_ is Emil?’ He asked, sounding quite suspicious.

Sabra turned her head toward him; still trying to wake up enough to make sense of what had happened in her nightmare.

‘What?’ What was he talking about?

‘When you were dreaming. You cried out for Emil.’ Why did he sound so put out?

Frowning, she tried to remember what she’d dreamt, but it was all starting to fade, quickly. _Weird_.

‘I... I don’t know... anyone named Emil...’ She looked up at Gandalf. ‘What happened?’

It was Thorin who answered.

‘You were sleeping peacefully for over an hour, and then, suddenly, you started crying out for this... _Emil_. Not long after that, you started to convulse, and your nose started to bleed, profusely. They wouldn’t stop, both the convulsions and the bleeding. I had to hold you down on the bed and keep you on your side so you would not suffocate on the blood, or hurt yourself.’ His expression darkened when he looked at her and she could see the remnants of horror at her sudden fit in his eyes. ‘I thought you were dying when you suddenly stopped breathing. Then Gandalf came charging in, and he brought you back.’

At this reiteration of what had happened, Sabra’s hand flew to her face and wiped at her nose. It came back bloody. The flow seemed to have ceased, but she could feel it coating her upper lip and the side of her face, where it was cracking and starting to itch now that it was drying. Looking back at her pillow, she saw that an impressive amount of blood had soaked part of it.

‘ _Shite_.’ She mumbled and started to try and wipe the blood away from her face with her hands. She just made it worse.

‘Here.’ Thorin had gone to a small table next to the door, where there stood a jug of water, and retrieved a wetted cloth for her to wipe her face and hands with.

She nodded gratefully when he handed it to her. Wiping up the remnants of the blood, she cleared her throat.

‘Thanks... For the cloth, and for watching over me during my... episode.’

The King just nodded solemnly and stood back, his gaze traveling to where Gandalf was following their interaction, looking between them with interest in his eyes, and a neutral expression on his face.

‘What can you tell me about this, Gandalf?’ Thorin asked.

Gandalf shrugged and stroked his beard in thought.

‘I can’t say for sure, but it seems that she had a seizure, induced by a nightmare. I have never seen such a thing before. This sort of infliction is more common in people who have damage to the brain due to injury, but she has none.’

Thorin nodded at this information and opened his mouth to ask something else, but Sabra interrupted him by raising her hand and clearing her throat, loudly, earning herself an irritated look from the Dwarf King.

She scowled back at him and just ignored his silent ‘ _command’_ to keep quiet.

‘ _Hello_? **She**  is in the room with you, and can speak for herself. Thank-you-very-much.’ When she had the men’s attention, she continued, ‘I’ve had this sort of thing before. When I was very little. The seizures were a part of my life for about two years, when I was a toddler, but when I grew older, they disappeared. The Doctors...’ She saw their surprise at her use of the word and realised she’d said it in English. There must be no equivalent for it in their language. She searched for a replacement word. ‘Um... The healers couldn’t find anything wrong with me, and when the seizures stopped, they said that I’d grown out of them. So...’ She shrugged, pulling a face. ‘But, apparently not.’

‘Hm... Curious.’ Gandalf mumbled. ‘And in between then and now, there has never been a seizure like this one?’

Shaking her head, Sabra thought back to her childhood and adolescence.

‘No, not any, in fact. Not that I can remember.’

The old man shuffled away from the side of her bed and made his way to the bed next to Thorin’s, all the while mumbling under his breath. She heard the name ‘ _Emil_ ’ being mentioned more than once between other words, but otherwise she couldn’t make anything of it. Gandalf lay down on the bed and closed his eyes, pulling his pointy hat over his eyes.

‘Gandalf?’ She asked, frowning.

‘Hmm?’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Thinking, child. Thinking.’ It wasn’t long before a loud snore tore through the room.

In spite of everything, an amused laugh escaped her.

 _‘Uh-huh... Thinking... Just like he was seeing someone about “herbs”, earlier.’_ She muttered to herself as she stood up from her bed, stretching her hands high above her head and pushing herself up to the tips of her toes as she arched her back, first bending backwards and then bending forwards, grabbing her toes and touching her nose to her knees. A deep, contented sigh escaped her when she righted herself again. The feeling of her muscles loosening up after being so tensed up, always gave her a feeling of euphoria.

A strangled sound was heard from Thorin’s side of the room and, surprised, she turned to him to ask what was wrong, only to be met with his back, while he was pulling on his leather armour over his tunic with strangely halted movements, and then proceeded to gird his sword and two daggers to his hips. He attached his vambraces to his forearms, and stepped into his boots, sliding in two more daggers in the boot shafts, before turning back to her.

 _Strange, I could have sworn I heard something..._ She frowned when she saw his guarded expression.

‘Shall we see if our companions are ready for supper?’ With a sudden courteous gesture, the King held out his arm for her to take.

Surprise coloured her voice when she answered.

‘Alright... But are you sure you’re not gearing up for war?’ She gestured at his attire, which was slightly overkill for supper in a pub. Even for her standards.

‘One can never be too careful, Mistress Ashford. Especially not when one is on unfamiliar ground.’

With a tilt of her head, Sabra observed him and then nodded, agreeing with this train of thought.

‘Right you are. Just a moment...’ She pulled the karambit knives from under her soiled pillow and shrugged on the holsters over her dress, fastening the buckles, which were attached to the leather straps, under her breasts. ‘Okay, ready.’ She looked up to see a peculiar expression on his face.

‘What is it?’ She asked, curious as of why he’d look at her like that.

The right corner of his mouth pulled up minutely, but it was enough to transform his face from solemn to amused. Sabra had never known anyone who could communicate -or convey his moods- with micro-expressions as well as the Dwarf King could.

‘It is just... you. You look so tiny and sweet and harmless, especially in that dress, like a child playing with her mother’s clothes, but underneath, you are as lethal as they come. You are like the poison berry. It looks harmless and pretty, but a drop of its juice is strong enough to kill ten grown men.’

Unsure if she should be amused or insulted, Sabra wrinkled her nose at the King’s clumsy comparison and decided to have some fun with it.

‘Sooo, you are saying I look like a child...’ Her voice trailed off as she raised a challenging eyebrow at him.

‘What? No!’ He held up his hands in surprise and tried to appease her. ‘Of course not! It was just an analogy.’

‘Oh... So, I’m like poison, then?’ A frown graced her features. ‘That’s not a very nice thing to say...’

Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long-suffering sigh.

‘No, that’s not what I’m saying...’

‘Oh-kay. So, you’re saying that you think I’m pretty?’ She really went straight for the throat with that last one, if she said so herself. _Save yourself out of that, your Majesty._ She had trouble keeping a straight face.

‘No!’ He seemed to realise his mistake the moment he made it and he groaned, cursing under his breath.

‘What?’ Her face fell. ‘You don’t think I’m pretty?’

Thorin had gone slightly pink again.

‘No... I mean, yes... I mean, no...’ He fell silent and frowned when she burst out laughing. ‘Wait, what are you doing?’ He sounded unamused.

‘Nothing?’ She fired back with a grin. ‘You are digging this hole all by yourself.’

‘ **Mistress Ashford!** **_Stop_** _embarrassing_ the King and go find yourselves some supper! Give me some semblance of _peace,_ before I turn you **_both_** into frogs!’ Came Gandalf’s sudden loud voice. Both Thorin and Sabra jumped at the sound.

A snicker escaped Sabra.

‘Oops. _Busted!_ ’ Was all she said, and she made herself scarce, scurrying out of the room, softly laughing at both men’s grumbles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback and Kudos make the world go round. And feed the muse. :)


	15. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Assholes will be Assholes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t own a thing. Except a brand new iPad Pro. Yay! :D
> 
> Oh, yeah, and my OFC and the storylines that you don’t recognise.
> 
> It’s stil a MES ;)
> 
> —————————
> 
> Stuff I listen to while writing this fic:
> 
> Sabaton - The Last Stand (album)  
> Epica - Design Your Universe (album)  
> Epica - The Classical Conspiracy (Live in Miskolc) (album)  
> The Hobbit (motion picture album)  
> Loreena Mckennit - An Ancient Muse (album)  
> Wonderwall - Ex Makina (single)  
> Within Temptation - Mother Earth (album)

Chapter 13

 

Outside the room she suddenly had to grip the wall to keep her equilibrium. Breathing deeply, she fought off the dizziness that overtook her. Obviously, the seizure and bloodloss had taken their -hopefully temporary- toll on her body. It took her a few seconds, but she was able to fight off the spinning in her head. She decided that a full stomach would go a long way to battle the fatigue she was feeling and help with replenishing her blood. Doubting that Thorin would be inclined to accompany her to dinner after she’d been making fun of him, she decided that it was time to see if Bofur was up for a bite to eat. She wondered which rooms they were in and knocked on the first door she saw. Which was the door opposite to hers.

There she found Bofur and Bilbo. They were in the room with Bifur, Bombur and Gloin, smoking pipe weed. _Of course_...

Oin, their fourth roommate, had stepped out to converse with Balin and Dwalin.

Within five minutes, she’d rounded up twelve freshly bathed Dwarves and an equally clean Hobbit. No more pungeant body odour from them... For at least a day or two. She’d take it.

Mentioning supper had been the magic word for them to cooperate without fail, and she laughed as they all descended the stairs in front of her; almost tripping over each other in their enthusiasm to get to the food first. Which she couldn’t blame them for. Their lunch had been quite good, and she was also looking forward to whatever the Inn’s cook had prepared for their supper. It would be a long time before they’d have such a comprehensive meal again. Bofur had told her that when they left Bree in the morning, they’d be traveling through a part of Middle Earth that was mostly uninhabited. ‘Going into the wilds’ he’d called it. For food, they’d be depentdent on the supplies they brought with them and on whatever they could catch or forage.

Sabra looked around the dining room as she calmly followed after the group of slightly rowdy dwarves. She’d given them the task of finding a place to sit while she, herself, found Master Butterbur to tell him that the big group of dwarves was ready for their supper.

After giving him the heads up, she gave the main room of the Inn a visual sweep to find the company. They’d found two large round tables near the entrance and were hauling empty chairs from around the room to where they’d be having their meal, so that everyone would have a place to sit and relax.

Just as she took a step away from the bar to make her way over to the dwarves and Bilbo, a heavy arm was slung over her shoulder and she was pulled into the side of a tall, lanky body.

‘Well, ‘ello ‘gain there, sweetness.’ A voice slurred in her ear; the owner of said voice blowing a disgusting whiff of half digested meat and ale into her face. ‘I knew ye’d be back.’

Fighting to stay calm and to stop her gag reflex, which suddenly made itself known because of the stench of chronic bad breath, Sabra ducked out from under the half-embrace of the man she’d rebuffed earlier in the afternoon.

‘I _**told**_ you that I’m not interested. Now leave. me. _alone_.’ Her biting no-nonsense tone didn’t seem to have any effect on the inebriated man.

‘Come on, lovely lady, I just want to buy you an ale.’ He tried again to hug her to him, but she wasn’t having it.

‘I’m warning you! If you don’t stop, you’ll regret it.’ Not wanting to make a scene -or start a fight- in the middle of the Inn, she took a step back from him, her spine bumping painfully into the bar behind her. _Shite... Boxed myself in real fucking well. Dammit..._

The man took advantage of her miscalculation by taking a step forward; again pushing into her personal space while his equally inebriated companions looked on with interest. Snickering at her obvious distress, they only encouraged their friend. She was beginning to sweat. If he didn’t stop, she’d be standing knee deep in a pile of butchered body’s within the next ten minutes, just like a few nights ago; she could already feel her control start to slip. A shiver of revulsion traveled down her spine.

‘Lovely lil’ thing like you? Couldna hurt a fly ya could.’ He grinned lasciviously at her. ‘Now be a good girl an’ give us a kiss.’

‘Please, _stop_. I don’t want to hurt you.’ And she really didn’t. These weren’t the hardened ruffian warriors they’d encountered on the road. These men were town’s folk. Probably the sons of bakers and butchers and washer women, who came to the Inn after work to drink a few ales and eat a few pies; and whose judgment was severely affected by alcohol. It wouldn’t be hard for her to take all five of them down, but she was afraid that she’d lose sight of whom she was taking out, and take them out _permanently_. She had no idea how her battered and bruised mind would react to a sudden violent outburst from one of the men. She was afraid that, once she allowed the situation to escalate, her hands would too easily find the curved knives next to her ribs and not discriminate about who they tore into.

‘Oh, I don’t mind a little hurtin’ if it means that I can have you, sweetness.’ He still was clueless about how threatening his towering posture and words were to her, and pushed her bodily up against the bar, forcing his leg between hers. All the while smiling down at her as if he was doing her the biggest favour in the world.

Sabra saw red, and her tenuous grip on her mind broke.

‘ _ **No!**_ ’ She grunted from between her teeth, and balled her fist, pulling it back to punch him squarely in the face, not even planning to hold back. Her other hand already instinctively reaching for the knife at her side.

To her astonishment, the bastard was suddenly hauled away from her with great force, and her knuckles only glanced over the skin of his jaw. It was enough to shock her out of her rage, and she blinked at the surprising scene in front of her.

The man had landed a few feet away, on his back, hard; a dazed expression appearing on his face as he rubbed the back of his head where it had roughly connected with the wooden planks of the floor.

Towering over him was the hulking form of Thorin Oakenshield; the Dwarf King somehow appearing larger than life as he looked down on the tall man laying on the floor; a cold fire burning in his eyes.

When the man’s friends started to protest the ‘abuse’ of their comrade, the King looked up at them and the men fell quiet when they saw the menacing rage he exuded.

‘The woman said, _NO_.’ He growled, pulling his lips tight over his clenched teeth, baring them at the group in a show of barely contained aggression. ‘You will _not_ bother her again.’

‘Is there a problem here?’ Master Butterbur stepped forward from where he’d been serving food at the bar. He was flanked by two very burly looking men. He took in the scene and shook his head. ‘Bertan Wirely, have ye been bothering the lady, here? How many times do I have to tell ye ta mind yer own business when yer visitin’ _my_ business, eh? Time ta go home and sleep off all that ale, me thinks.’ Then to the burly men he said, ‘Alright boys, throw ‘im out.’ He pointed at the drunk man as he was being pulled up from the ground. ‘Doona let me see ya bothering any ladies again in my establishment, Bert, or I’ll ban ye for life. _And_ I’ll tell yer mum.’

Thorin had stepped up to where Sabra was leaning against the bar, and laid his hands on her shoulders. Bringing his face closer to hers, he narrowed his eyes as he bent over slightly to study her face.

‘Are you back?’ He asked quietly.

Sabra’s gaze flew to his from where she was still staring at the man on the floor, and nodded affirmatively. Apparently he’d seen how her mind had snapped minutes before. She was still feeling slightly shell-shocked from how fast that had happened.

The man, now held up by the two bouncers, started to protest his banishment from the Inn.

‘Did ye not see how the Dwarf attacked me?!’ He gestured wildly at Thorin. Then to his friends, ‘Ye saw, did ye not?!’ One of the men nodded, while another said heatedly, ‘Yea, Bertan was only talkin’ to the lady an’ then the Dwarf attacked ‘im. Inbred bastard ‘e is!’ The other two men kept quiet and looked away.

Thorin turned back to the group, shielding her from them with his body. Which was nice of him, but completely unnecessary in her eyes. Stupid antiquated ideas. _Urgh_.

‘I did not attack you. I pulled you away. Thus saving your life.’ The King said, voice deceptively calm. Sabra could see how tense his shoulders were, every muscle in his body strung tight, ready to pounce at the first sign of violence from the group of men.

Bert laughed mockingly.

‘Saved me from wha’?’

The King took a small step aside and gestured to her.

‘From her.’

The man laughed again.

‘From ‘er? Wha’s she gonna do? Cuddle me to death?’

Sabra leant towards Thorin when she saw him tense up even more.

‘Thorin, just leave it, he’s drunk. There’s not to be reasoned with him. Let them,’ She gestured to the bouncers, ‘take care of him.’ Laying a hand upon his bicep, she squeezed warningly. Fuck, his arm felt as hard as iron. Unsure if she’d be able to stop him if he went off on the stupid, drunk man, she tried to pull the King back towards herself by his arm. To no avail. _Dammit_. She was ready to just go to their table and have something to eat. Tired from all that had transpired that day. A headache brewed behind her eyes and she pinched the bridge of her nose to stave it off.

‘Yea, listen to yer _**whore**_ , Dwarf. Walk away before I pound yer arse into the ground, ya short, inbred, greedy bastard!’

When she saw how Thorin moved toward the man, she let out a frustrated growl.

‘ _Right_. That’s _**it**_.’ Stepping around Thorin, she was in front of the drunk man within a fraction of a second, before anyone had even noticed she’d moved. Bertan blinked at her uncomprehendingly.

‘How...’ He began to say.

She didn’t give him any time to finish that sentence. Not so gently grabbing him by the ear and dragging him to the exit of the Inn, without any hesitance or worry that she was hurting him. She’d _had_ it with the men of this world. Bertan cried out in pain and tried to escape her grip, but she wasn’t budging, and he was forced to follow her like a naughty little boy who was being dragged by his angry mother.

‘Now, you listen to me, _Bertan_. Your appalling behaviour will no longer be tolerated in this fine establishment. I suggest that you make yourself scarce, before something  bad happens to you.’ At the door, she let go of his ear and ducked out of the way of the fist he clumsily lugged her way. The movement caused the man to spin on his axes so that she was suddenly standing behind him. She put her booted foot against his behind and gave him a hard shove out the door. He tumbled into the mud of the street, almost faceplanting himself in a pile of horseshit. ‘ ** _And stay out!_** ’ She bellowed angrily, slamming the heavy outer door of the Inn closed.

Marching back into the main room, she discovered that there suddenly was some sort of Mexican Standoff going on between the group of Dwarves and a group of men. One of the friends of Bertan had grabbed Thorin by his tunic and had tried to haul him up to his own height, which had failed because of how dense Dwarves were. One did not just lift a Dwarf as easily as that; she herself could attest to that fact. The aggressive move made by the man had resulted in a company of hotheaded Dwarves coming to their leader’s aid, this again resulting in other men coming to their townsman’s aid. Weapons were drawn. And now there was a tense atmosphere which was about to blow, from what she could surmise.

‘ _Fuckin’ Hell._ ’ She muttered, rubbing her forehead to ease the tension headache that had bloomed in the past few minutes. She was of a mind to just turn around and go to her room. Lay down and have a nap. Preferably nightmare free and lasting until morning. Let these stupid, alcohol filled testosterone bombs figure things out for themselves. It was only the fact that she took pity on a very nervous and desperate looking Master Butterbur that she didn’t do just that. The man probably thought he was looking at the beginnings of a complete, involuntary remodel of his Inn.

‘ _ **Enough!**_ ’ Sabra roared; stepping in between the two groups. It was enough to get everyone’s attention. ‘There will be no more fighting in this establishment. You should all be _ashamed_ of yourselves!’

‘You’re one to speak, being the _harlot_ of these Dwarves!’ The man still holding Thorin’s tunic, remarked mockingly.

With a speed that was almost inhuman, she forced him to release the King, working him to the ground, knees on the arms she’d forced behind his back, and pulling his head up by his hair, bending his spine into a very uncomfortable position, one of her razor sharp curved knives pressing against his neck. The man let out a fearful squawk, his eyes bulging in his head.

‘What was that?’ She hissed, her face a cold mask.

‘N... Nothing.’ The man croaked.

‘That’s what I thought.’ Sabra holstered her knife at her side and in the same movement pushed off from the man with her legs, letting his head drop to the ground. He groaned at the impact.

Then she sharply looked at the two groups of posturing males; her eyes glacial and her aggressive body language a warning to anyone who would even be thinking of contradicting her.

‘Now, do I need to escort anyone else out of here, or can we all just go back to our supper?’

No-one moved.

Waving a hand, Sabra ushered them away.

‘ _Good_. Go on. As you were.’

One by one the townsfolk started to disperse. A few of them throwing her dirty looks and grumbling under their breath, but, considering the way it all had seemed to go to shit only minutes before, it went quite smoothly.

Behind her, Kili piped up,

‘ _Mahal_ , Sabra! That was... Magnificent!’

Turning to the group of Dwarves, she pointed at the youngling whose eyes were shining with admiration.

‘Not. A. Word.’ She growled. ‘I’ve had it up to _here_ with these fucking pissing contests. Just whip out a fucking ruler and measure whose is the biggest and be _done_ with it. Godfuckingdamnit.’

Kili looked flabbergasted at her words.

‘What?’

‘Now, lass...’ Began Bofur.

‘No.’ She rubbed her forehead again, the pounding pain having increased. ‘Stop. I’m done with this shit. I just want to sit down and eat my supper in peace.’

In the end, she got what she wanted. Everyone at their tables was quiet and subdued; with wary glances being thrown her way during their meal. Except for Thorin. He looked at her with a defiant burning in his eyes, though she had to give it to him that he kept his face deceptively neutral. She pretended not to notice his glances, but did keep her eye on him all through the meal. Looking for signs of possible trouble. She had caused him and his company quite a few problems over the past week, and she had heard Bofur say that her sudden appearance in their midst had delayed their voyage with at least a day, maybe even two. 

Knowing that the King wanted to get to their destination as soon as possible, Sabra calculated that this could spell trouble for her and her presence among them, and she didn’t want to be left behind in this shithole because of being seen as a problem. Eventually, she decided to keep a low profile for the coming days and to not go against the grain so much, no matter how it would pain her to let certain things slide.

Sighing, she pushed her plate away; the food thankfully having helped with tempering the headache.

‘I’m going to bed.’ She declared as she stood up. There were a few mumbled goodbyes from some of the dwarves, but most of them just watched her go silently.

Sabra could feel the eyes of the King burning in her back as she walked out of the room and all the way up the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feed(back) the Muse, please. :)
> 
> Kudos the shit out of it. If you want. :P
> 
> Until next time, my fellow Sandbox Dwellers!


	16. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the road again.
> 
> Mistakes are made.
> 
> Oops...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own no thing
> 
> I make no money
> 
> This is the Middle Earthy Sandbox
> 
> Yeah!
> 
> ——————————
> 
> Bit of a filler chapter to bridge stuff together...
> 
> Also, stuff happens that wasn’t planned... hmmm... :/
> 
> So, Maybe not such a filler chapter after all?

Chapter 14

 

It was as Bofur had told her. From the moment they’d started out of Bree’s East gate, it was as if they had stepped out into the wild. Somehow the landscape on the east side of Bree was wilder and more jagged than it had been on the west side. The road became more empty as the days passed, and eventually turned into a track. Coming across a remote farmstead became more rare, and further in between.

After a week of eventless travel through hills and grassland, interspersed with woods, they’d passed into what the Dwarves called the Midgewater Marshes. And they lived up to their name. They really did. Fucking bloodsucking mosquitos _everywhere_. Especially now that it was Spring. They’d found their way into her hair, which was growing out now that she didn’t have a chance to clip it anymore, getting tangled in the short, inch-long strands and giving her a terribly itchy scalp. And she even had to fish them out of her nose and her ears! It was almost impossible to eat something without also ingesting a thousand of those motherfuckers. Not to mention the irritating high pitched sound they made as they flew around her head. She thanked whatever force was watching over her that she never got stung. Which was weird, but she knew what people said about gift horses and all...

At first, the company had all begun to slap and swat at whichever mosquito flew around their heads, or landed on their skin, but soon they just let it be. If one was slain, hundreds more took their place. There was no fighting this army of millions of tiny monsters.

When it became really bad and they were surrounded by black clouds of the bloodthirsty bastards, Sabra had fished her balaclava out of her backpack and pulled it on. It was instant relief, not having to spit out little black crunchy things every few seconds, in spite of the garment being a bit claustrophobic to wear in twenty degrees centigrade weather.

The Dwarves and the Hobbit weren’t as lucky as she was. They had wound pieces of cloth around their heads, but it wasn’t as foolproof as her own headpiece, and they had large red lumps wherever there was exposed skin. Some even had their eyes swollen shut; their steeds being led by the ones of the Dwarves who could still see. Poor Ori’s nose had swollen to twice its size and Bombur was sporting a giant ear.

The only one who didn’t seem to be bothered by the midges’ bites, apart from Sabra, was Gandalf. He’d remarked that midges didn’t like wizard’s blood when she’d asked him about it. But she’d felt the magic pulse around him. The old codger had put up some sort of forcefield to protect himself against the hordes of insects.

Her nights were still plagued by nightmares of the attack; those dreams sometimes mixed with strange and terrifying sights and sounds and a fear she felt as if it was her own, but somehow it wasn’t... She couldn’t quite explain. Not even to herself. And herself was the only one she could explain it to, as she was _never_ going to tell anyone about the monsters and the cries that haunted her dreams.

Also, she’d had another seizure. Three days after leaving Bree, she’d suddenly gotten faint and everyting had gone black. This time, the seizure had not been as long and severe as the first one, but she’d fallen off her horse before anyone had noticed her behaving strangely. She’d hit her head and if she’d fallen a fraction of a second earlier, she’d broken her neck on a razor sharp rock that had protruded from the ground.

That had been the last time that Thorin had allowed her to ride alone, or at the back of their small caravan. He’d _ordained_ that there had to be someone riding next to her at all times. She’d remembered her decision to not make waves just in time and had kept quiet when all she’d wanted to do was challenge the King’s authority. When she hadn’t objected to his order, Thorin had looked at her strangely. If she hadn’t known any better, she’d have sworn he’d looked like he was almost disappointed that she hadn’t defied him.

The someone riding with her, turned out to be Bofur most of the time. Sometimes Dwalin took over. And she’d had a few nice conversations with Bilbo, about the Shire and the assortment of cheeses the Hobbits made. Apparently they did have a brie like cheese there. She’d made a mental note to go back there one day. If she ever made it out of this undertaking alive.

One of the days, she’d ridden next to Bifur, Bofur’s cousin. The Dwarf was friendly enough, but because of the language barrier it had been a rather quiet day.

After the Midgewater Marshes, which took them four-and-a-half hellish days to cross, they passed through a grassy plain that looked out to a mountainrange -the Weather Hills, said Bilbo- that was situated to the North-East, and -according to Bofur- to the South Downs to the south. The weather had kept on being mild and sunny, with fluffy white clouds floating by leasurely, and over all morale had lifted now that they didn’t have to deal with billions of insects anymore. Everyone’s mosquito bites had vanished within days, and Ori’s nose and Bombur’s ear were back to normal.

Fourteen days into their journey from Bree, the lands had started to become more elevated, and by day fifteen, they were once again alternating ascending and descending as they came closer to the foot of the Weather Hills. One afternoon, when they had been resting on top of a hill, Bofur had pointed out to her the ruins of the Watchtower of Amon Sûl, or Weathertop, as it was now called, which was just visible in the distance. Sabra had narrowed her eyes, straining to see it more clearly in the hazy afternoon. She’d even gone as far as de-bagging her rifle to peer through the scope. A couple of the Dwarves had eyed the weapen warily.

The ruins looked ominous and dark. When she’d remembered what had gone down there during the Fellowship of the Ring, a shiver had gone down her spine. She could try and change that. Frodo didn’t have to get hurt. He’d carry that wound for the rest of his life, and for what? It hadn’t made his journey any better, or any worse. It had just bothered him immensely. And had almost betrayed his presence to the enemy a few times.

She’d put away the rifle and made a decision.

Crouching next to where Gandalf had been sitting alone on a rock, eating the last of their stale bread, she’d leant over to him.

‘In sixty or seventy years or so, don’t let Frodo go near Weathertop. Warn him to not make fires. And alert Aragorn to the risks of leaving the Hobbits alone for any amount of time, for they are foolish and naive when it comes to their food.’ She’d said quietly, so no-one would overhear them.

Gandalf had sucked in a breath and his eyes had become wide with something akin shock at hearing Aragorn’s name being mentioned so casually.

‘ _What_?’ He’d exclaimed. ‘ _How_ do you know that name?’ He’d grabbed her and shook her. ‘ ** _How_** do you know that _Name_?!’

Sabra had fought to keep her calm as the old man had kept on shaking her and questioning her. Reacting only when she’d felt something shift around her; she’d tilted her head and thrown the irate wizard an inquisitive look.

‘What was that? Did you feel that? Something shifted...’ She’d looked around to see if anyone else had noticed, but everyone had seemed fine, and focussed on how Gandalf was shaking her.

A realisation had passed over Gandalf’s face.

‘ _What did you **do**?!_ ’ He’d shouted at her, letting go of her as if he’d burnt himself. Looking at her, but not looking at her, he’d frowned. ‘ _You know our future._ ’ He’d breathed to himself more than to her, the horror in his voice almost indescribable as it dawned on him what the shifts were.

‘Foolish _child_! Meddling in things you do not understand! I should have sent you to the leader of my order as soon as I saw you appear from thin air! But I thought I could handle it by myself. And now you have caused a change that we have no way of knowing if it will be for the better!’

Recoiling from the wizard, Sabra had gone pale beneath the freckles on her nose as soon as she’d heard Gandalf mention the leader of his order.

‘ _ **What?**_ Leave me in the claws of Saruman the White? **_No!_** He is a fucking evil arsehole!’ Fear had been evident in her voice. Telling Gandalf that she was speaking truth. The old man had closed his eyes in defeat.

Another, more severe shift had happened.

‘Oh, _shite_.’ She’d murmured as soon as she’d realised what she’d said. ‘That was a big change... You’re not supposed to know that he’s corrupted, yet.’

‘Get away from me! You cannot tell me these _things_! You cannot tell me _anything_! The cost could be too great!’ Gandalf had hastily walked away from her and disappeared behind a throng of bushes. He hadn’t reappeared until they’d broken up camp and were all already mounted. The wizard had been very actively avoiding her ever since. _Again_.

And that had also been another setback for her tenuous friendship with the Dwarves. They’d started to look at her with suspicion, _again_. Even Bofur and Bilbo had become careful when they talked to her. And, apart from sleeping back to back with Thorin sometimes -usually after a nightmare, when she was chilled to her bones-, the King had ignored her almost as well as Gandalf had. 

She was unsure of the _why_ , though. He hadn’t seemed very impressed with Gandalf’s outburst toward her to begin with, and had kept on interacting with her as he always had, only instead of the slight distance that he had created earlier in the journey, between himself and her, there now seemed to be a wall behind which he hid any and all emotions. He was courteous when he had to interact with her, but that was it. She’d be lying if she said that it didn’t hurt her feelings just a bit.

And now, a week later, they were camping on a rocky outcrop in the mountains. She sat down next to Gandalf, who had tensed when she approached him.

‘I’m _sorry_.’ Her voice was quiet. ‘I only wanted to change the quality of life for someone brave and noble, and I fucked it up. Badly.’ She felt ashamed of her lack of good judgment. She should have never said anything. He had been right; meddling in things like these, in people’s lives, was bad. It saddened her that it had broken the cautious friendship that she’d built with the old man.

The wizard heaved a heavy sigh as he blew out the pipe smoke from between his lips.

‘I do not doubt your good intentions, Sabra. I sense no ill will from you.’ His voice was solemn. ‘I am just afraid that you have set things in motion that we cannot oversee. _Please_ , promise me that you will not breathe a word of this to anyone.’

Sabra nodded.

‘Alright.’ Her voice was still very quiet. ‘My lips are sealed.’

Gandalf hummed in agreement and seemed appeased by her apology and her promise.

There was a tenuous silence between them until suddenly they were startled by sharp cries and roars sounding in the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feed(back) the Muze, please. :)
> 
> Kudos are a very delectable dessert.


	17. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teasing, stories, and arguments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing you recognise.
> 
> I make no money from this story.
> 
> And it still is a fucking M.E.S.
> 
> Enjoy.

Chapter 15

 

She was on her feet within a fraction of a second, heart beating wildly and both karambit knives gripped tightly in her hands, ready to strike. Gandalf looked up at her in surprise.

‘What are you doing?’ He asked.

‘What the fuck was that?!’ She asked in tandem with Bilbo, who had been conversing with his horse nearby. Okay, the ‘ _the fuck_ ’ in that sentence might have just been hers.

She’d awoken from a nightmare full of monsters, earlier, and she was still a bit shaky. Having had a conversation after that, with Gandalf, about ominous things that could happen now that she’d told him things he had no right knowing, had her strung tight, and hearing unidentifiable, haunting cries echo through the mountains near to where they were camping, did nothing to calm her frayed nerves, either. Hence the maybe _slight_ overreaction of being battle ready within a second.

Kili, who had been sitting leasurely by the campfire, where he had been keeping watch, together with Fili, answered.

‘Orcs.’ Was all he said, in an ominous voice. She looked at him sharply to gauge his body language. His voice was a bit too dramatised and his posture a bit too relaxed for her to think he was really serious about that explanation.

From the corner of her eyes, she saw Thorin sit up quickly from where he’d been slumbering against a rock. The moment he heard his nephew say the word ‘ _orcs_ ’, his hand flew to the handle of his sword, gripping it tightly as he looked around, alarmed. Ah, apparently, she wasn’t the only one battle ready at the blink of an eye.

Sabra saw Fili throw a surprised look at his brother’s denomination of the sounds, but then he got in on the jest, and continued.

‘Throat-cutters.’ He said in a raspy voice. ‘There’ll be dozens of them out there.’ Gesturing with his pipe he studied Bilbo’s frightened face and continued, ‘The lowlands are crawling with them.’

Kili took over from his sibling. The two youngsters visibly enjoying scaring the Hobbit.

‘They strike in the wee small hours, when everyone’s asleep... Quick and quiet... No screams...’ He held his tongue for a second. ‘... _Just lots of blood_...’ He then whispered.

More sounds were heard, and Bilbo quickly turned towards it, looking quite disturbed.

The brothers had such self-congratulatory smirks on their faces when they looked at each other, their composures dissolving into snickers and chuckles at the discomfort they’d caused in the Hobbit, that Sabra was of a mind to cuff them both on the ears. 

Apparently, she wasn’t the only one.

‘You think that’s _funny_?’ Came Thorin’s grumbling voice. Sabra saw Bilbo turn back to the boys, confusion written all over his face.

‘You think that a night raid by Orcs is a _joke_?’ Thorin’s expression when he looked upon his nephews was disdainful.

Kili’s face fell.

‘We didn’t mean anything by it.’ He said, subdued, looking away from his uncle in shame.

The expression on Bilbo’s face turned from confusion to comprehension when he understood that the boys had been making fun of him. Shaking his head, he turned to look at Thorin.

‘No, you _didn’t_.’ Thorin bit out at Kili as he walked past them. ‘You know _nothing_ of the world.’

The King stalked away to the edge of the outcrop, stopping at a boulder near the ledge, and looked into the distance, his shoulders hunched and his stature tensed as his back was turned towards them.

‘Don’t mind him, laddie. Thorin has more cause than _most_ , to hate Orcs.’ Balin had walked up to the brothers and leaned against the rockface that rose up behind them.

Sabra suddenly realised that she remembered this, as Balin started to tell the story of the battle for Moria, the loss of the old King and his heir, and of Azog, the pale Orc.

She sat down again, next to Gandalf, and listened to it being told by a visibly moved Dwarf. It was different when you knew the parties involved, she realised. Hearing about the loss and grief that these Dwarves had known was harder now that she’d lived with them for so many weeks. It really hit home, that these males were warriors, and survivors who’d lost more in their lifetime than most people would be able to handle. But they had survived, and they had thrived. It brought tears to her eyes. And she may or may not have sniffled a bit when Balin explained how he’d found his new King, whom he would follow to the ends of Middle Earth.

By then, all Dwarves had woken up from Balin speaking about their history, and when he came to the end of his narrative, each and everyone of them had such admiration and devotion written all over their faces as they all gazed upon their King, that it tore at her heart. Up until then, she’d seen them as a humorous, rowdy and slightly suspicious bunch, but this moment was a sign to her that Dwarf loyalty ran deep and far and wasn’t easily abandoned, or broken. She dabbed at her eyes with her fingers and heard Gandalf chuckle next to her. She elbowed him lighly in the ribs in retalliation.

‘ _Shut up._ ’ She whispered as quietly as she could. Which earned her another chuckle.

‘And the pale Orc?’ Asked Bilbo from where he was sitting near the fire. ‘What happened to him?’

‘He slunk back into the hole whence he came. That _filth_ died of his wounds, _long_ ago.’ Thorin answered as he walked by, his tone of voice contemptuous.

Sabra saw Gandalf and Balin exchange a look of doubt at the same moment as she, herself, made a soft squeeky humming sound in reaction to his words. This time it was Gandalf who elbowed her in the ribs.

‘ _Sorry_.’ She whispered.

Then she suddenly stood, and looked over to the other side of the canyon that cleaved through the mountains. An ominous feeling of foreboding tearing through her.

‘ _Oh, Fuck... That’s right._ ’ She breathed, remembering.

‘Will it help?’ Came Gandalf’s voice suddenly.

She gazed down at him and met his eyes. Shaking her head, she sighed.

‘No. It will only cause fear and unrest where it isn’t needed.’

‘Then do nothing.’

Nodding, she sat back down and stared into the fire.

‘I have never really asked you where you come from.’ Gandalf continued, conversationally.

‘No you haven’t.’ She fell quiet.

The wizard made an irritated sound, and Sabra chuckled before she continued.

‘There’s not much to tell, really. I was a foundling. Abandoned and unwanted. I was adopted by good people when I was eighteen months old. My mother died when I was three, though, and after that it was just myself and my father. I grew up in a relatively happy home and decided to follow in my father’s footsteps and joined the army. My father passed away shortly after that. Turned out I have trouble following orders without questioning them, and in the end the army were happy to be rid of me. After that, I went into the mercenary thing. Traveling all over the world, fighting in wars that aren’t mine. Been doing that ever since I was in my early twenties. Well, until I fell off a mountain that is...’ She shrugged. ‘Although, this is not much different, is it? Still a mercenary. Still fighting in wars that aren’t mine. Still not laying down roots.’

‘Is there no-one then? Nowhere to call home?’ Gandalf’s voice was both inquisitive and sad at the same time.

‘No. I do have a few good friends, and a small flat... um, dwelling, in London, which is a large city. But other than that, I’m on my own.’

Gandalf hummed and took a pull from his pipe. When he had expelled the smoke, he looked at her.

‘Quite a solitary life for a woman, don’t you think?’

A snort escaped her.

‘What kind of antiquated crap is that? Where I come from, there are millions of women who live alone and have successful carreers. Not all of us are interested in marriage and children, you know.’

‘It is different here.’ Was all he said.

‘Yeah, I’d gathered that from all the remarks I’ve been getting over the past few weeks.’ Her tone was humorous.

‘So you do not want children, or marriage?’

_Where did that suddenly come from?_

‘Um... Why that question?’ She raised an eyebrow at him in surprise.

The old man suddenly took a few very nervous-looking puffs from his pipe.

‘Well... I have... well... that is... both Thorin and I... have noticed... that... ummm... Well, it’s like this...’

Sabra huffed at the eloquent wizard’s sudden inability to string a sentence together.

‘Fuckin’ hell, Gandalf, out with it!’

The wizard sighed and then threw out a slew of words all at once.

‘ _You-haven’t-bled-since-you-came-to-be-with-us._ ’ His tone was hushed as he looked around if any of the others had overheard him.

 _Ah... Oh-kaayyy..._ Both her eyebrows had risen almost to her hairline. Well, there was a conversation she never thought she’d have with him...

‘And why should that be a concern of yours? Or of Thorin’s?’ She even sounded flabbergasted to her own ears.

‘If there came to be a child from the attack, which happened while you were part of _my_ company, and thus under _my_ protection, then I would take responsibility.’ Suddenly came a quiet but strong voice from behind her.

She whipped around to look at Thorin, who was standing closer to them than she’d have guessed.

‘ _Responsibility_.’ She deadpanned.

He inclined his head.

‘Yes.’

‘And... what kind of acts would that _responsibility_ entail?’

‘I would take you into my House, and claim you, and the child, as my kin.’ His voice was solemn.

Bewildered, she looked up at him.

‘Well, isn’t that noble of you... But it isn’t necessary.’

‘You do _not_ understand.’ Thorin pressed. ‘If you are with child and without a husband, or a male family member to offer you shelter, you will be ostracised. Unwed women who fall pregnant and who don’t have a very understanding family to fall back on, usually end up in brothels, as beggars, or _dead_.’

Frowning at the bleak picture he painted, Sabra shook her head and stood, turning all the way around so she could address the King properly.

‘Thanks, but no thanks, your Majesty. I think I’ll manage.’ 

Oh, maybe that hadn’t been the right thing to say. She saw how Thorin’s face darkened and his eyes flashed with irritation.

‘ _How_ will you manage? Carry the babe on your _back_ while you fight other people’s _wars_? Or will you abandon the babe as _you_ were abandoned, and just go on with your life as if nothing had happened?’ His tone was suddenly biting as he tried to get his point across.

Sabra hissed at him in anger. That last remark was _completely_ uncalled for.

‘I would _never_ abandon a child. You _asshole!_ ’ Her tone mirrorred his.

‘Then you _will_ accept my offer and become part of my House.’ He ordered her, leaning forward.

‘I will **_not_**!’ She countered, crossing her arms in front of her chest defensively.

‘You pigheaded, _stubborn_ , _**obstinate,**_ slip of a woman!’ They stood almost nose to nose now. Neither of them willing to give an inch. ‘ _Take_ the life-line I’m offering you!’

‘I do **_not_** need the _fucking_ life-line!’ She argued, her voice becoming louder.

‘How do you _know_?!’ Thorin growled.

 ** _‘Because I cannot have children, you absolute MULE!’_** Her bellow echoed through the mountains.

That took the wind out of his sails. The King’s eyes grew wide and he recoiled from where he had been crowding her.

‘ _What?_ ’ He whispered, stunned by her sudden outcry.

‘I. Can. Not. Have. Children.’ She repeated, her voice now devoid of emotion. A shock went through her when she startled from a sudden hand on her shoulder. She looked over her shoulder and saw that they’d managed to attract the attention of the entire company.

‘Och, lass, I am _so_ sorry.’ Bofur squeezed her shoulder and looked at her with softness and pity shining in his dark eyes.

That was the last straw.

‘Oh, fuck you all, and fuck your stupid fucking quest!’ Sabra shook off his hand, and stalked to where her weapons and pack were laying next to her sleeping mat and sleeping bag.

During an icy silence, she shoved her sleeping gear into the pack and closed it up. She shrugged it on and shouldered her rifle. Then she turned to the silent group of Dwarves, Hobbit and Wizard who were still staring at her.

‘See ya.’ Was all she said, and walked off between the trees.

It only took a few seconds of her being gone for the company to unfreeze from their surprise, and she could hear a cacophony of voices break loose behind her.

She wouldn’t leave them behind for good. Only for a few days. She needed time to herself. Time to find peace with the world she’d landed in. Without any distractions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that didn’t end well... O.O
> 
> Please, Feed the Muse.
> 
> She also likes Kudos :)
> 
> See ya!


	18. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sabra runs away, but is followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing, and I make no money from this story.
> 
> Everything and everyone you recognise is not mine.
> 
> This is my M.E.S., All the way. :)
> 
> ———————
> 
> Holy shitballz! It’s an almost 5000 word update! O.o
> 
> Nothing is beta’d, and everything is only lightly spell checked. As English is not my first language, all mistakes are my own.

Chapter 16

 

She marched through the night for a long time, following the track that was the East Road. Making her way eastwards through the mountains and forests. She was fuming with anger and indignation, and needed to walk it off. Thankfully, the light of the full moon was enough for her to see the path. It took her at least an hour -or three- to calm down sufficiently enough to start to look out for a decent -and safe- place to sleep. Eventually, she found a tree that would be easy to climb, and was leafy enough to hide her from the eyes of people or animals on the ground.

When she had set up ‘camp’ high up, in the crown of the tree, to get a few hours of shut-eye, fastening herself to a branch with a piece of rope she’d detached from her bivouac bag, her mental exhaustion finally caught up with her, lowering the psychological barriers she’d erected over the past few weeks. She felt fragile and shaky and not like herself, at all.

Everything that had happened came racing back to her, all at once. From her fall, to the violence and rape she’d endured in this hostile world, to the friction that existed between herself and the Dwarf King, to the old hurt of being told at seventeen that she never would have children. A wound which she’d thought had closed and been scarred over, over the past twenty years, was being ripped open again. She’d made her peace with it long ago, but Thorin’s persistant prodding, and over-all complete lack of tact, had somehow gotten under her skin so much that it had caused her to throw it out into the open like that. Something which she’d never done before. It had shocked her almost as much as it had Thorin and his company.

A shiver wracked her body, and when she let out a wounded sound, she closed her eyes. Biting the knuckles of her hand to try and keep her composure, she grunted in pain. It was to no avail. Another whimper escaped her, and she balled her fists in disgust of her own weakness. Rage and grief tore through her; the mental pain and self-hatred so great, that she started to pound the tree with her right fist. The bark soon tearing through the skin of her knuckles, leaving them bloody. Still she didn’t stop. It felt good to feel another hurt than the one in her spirit. It kept away the feelings of loneliness and helplessness, and the agony of feeling completely displaced in this strange new world. Feeling this helpless didn’t sit well with her independent fighter mentality and it screwed with her head, badly. 

After what felt like hours, but was probably closer to ten minutes, the anger that overlay the immense grief she was feeling started to wane and she trembled under the weight of it. The punishing rhythm of her fist hitting the tree slowly faltered when the first tear fell, and she moaned from the pain that radiated up her forearm from her hand; pulling it against her body and protectively cradling it against her chest. 

A scream tore from her throat, reflecting the feelings of impotence and loss that were fighting to break free from her strenuous hold on them. After that, there was no stopping the flood of tears and wails. She cried and screamed her pain into the darkness of the pre-dawn twilight for longer than she was comfortable to admit, not caring about who or what would hear her, letting go of the feelings which she’d been bottling up for too long, now.

Sabra gave in to the moment of debilitation until she finally succumbed to her exhaustion, and fell asleep, never noticing the quiet, dark haired figure that stood behind a big tree, a few yards away; his head bowed and forehead pressed into the bark; eyes pinched shut in shame as he listened to the cries of despair that slowly gave way to silence. It was a long time before he heaved a deep, sad sigh and sat down heavily to lean against the tree; sleep evading him for the remainder of the night as he kept watch over the slumbering woman.

 

———

 

She awoke to birds twittering and the buzzing of insects among the trees; sun beams streamed through the openings between the leaves and played over her face. Her eyes felt gritty and burned when she opened them.

Stretching her stiffened muscles, she eyed the sun and its position in the sky. It was already mid-morning.

She had wasted away quite some time sleeping. It had been a long time since she’d slept this deeply. It meant that the company had probably passed her by already without her noticing, and she would have to up her speed to catch up and keep up, as they were on horseback and she had to match their speed on foot. Sighing, she unwound the rope from around her waist, and from where it had been fastened to the tree. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her dry mouth and her stomach protested against the stretch of time it went without food. _Time to find water and some sustenance._

Taking her glock and its holster out of her backpack, she fastened it to her hip. Now that she was on her own again, she might need it. She had no idea what kinds of creatures roamed these mountains and woods, and she didn’t want to end up as someone’s dinner.

Climbing down the tree was agony. Her right hand was swollen and very painful; the knuckles were scabbed over and dirty from where they’d hit the tree. She had trouble to even grip the lower branches lightly. Her mostly one-handed descent was clumsy and she ended up with a couple of ripped nails on her left hand. _Great. Way to go, damaging your dominant hand like that! How the fuck are you going to fight off threats, now?!_ Grumbling under her breath at her own stupidity in her moment of weakness, she jumped the last two metres to the ground, not wanting to aggravate her hand even more.

By the time she was back on the ground, decked out in her body-armour and having all weapons loaded and at the ready -she’d even put the firing pin back into her rifle-, the blue sky had started to cloud over. Heaving the backpack onto her back, and then slinging her rifle over her shoulder, she turned towards where she heard the sound of water cascading over rocks. They had been following a small river, or maybe it was more like a brook, for the past few days, as it lay conveniently close to the East Road. Which meant that, dispite the persistantly dry and warm weather, they had had enough to drink at all times, and there had been an abundance of wild strawberries and blueberries to forage. She’d asked about the early appearance of the berries, and was told that, apart from winter, there always was one or another species of edible berries available for picking in these woods. Especially near the river.

When she got closer to the water, she heard a splashing that went against the natural rhythm of the stream. Her steps faltered as she carefully stepped behind a tree and glanced past it towards where the sound originated from. And got an eyeful of a lovely rounded, muscled, male arse, just before it was covered by grey longjohns and over those, dark blue leather trousers. _Thorin_. _He must have only just gotten out of the water._ The top part of the longjohns hung free around the King’s hips while he fastened the front of his trousers; the muscles in his back and arms working as he tied the strings. Sabra let her gaze roam over the twin dimples that lay just above his bum, then up over his back, to the broad shoulders. Old battle scars littered the King’s torso, telling the story of his survival of the brutal wars that had been waged in this world.

Sabra leaned her shoulder against the tree as she drank in the magnificent sight before her. With the attack still so fresh in her mind, she might not feel like acting on the instincts that had started to awaken inside her at seeing Thorin like this, but she could definitely appreciate the King’s exquisite physique. He was built like a tank.

‘Hmmm, it’s not that I don’t appreciate the view, but, what are you doing here?’ She asked, out of the blue, startling the King. He stiffened, his shoulders and back going ramrod straight, those lovely muscles tensing under his tanned skin.

Then he turned around, and Sabra took in the definition of his pecs under lightly distributed chesthair, and his flat stomach that sported a happy trail which disappeared into the trousers that hung low on his hips. Fascinated, her eyes followed a drop of water that dripped from his wet hair onto his chest, ran along his sternum, down his stomach, and into said happy trail.

‘You _cannot_ go out into the woods on your own, like you did. It is too dangerous.’ He answered her question. Blinking at him, she had to mentally pull herself back to the conversation after admiring his physical form. Thorin held up a hand when she started to protest his words. ‘It is _not_ because you are a woman. It is because, man _or_ woman, if you really _are_ from another world as you and Gandalf claim you are, you do _not_ know the dangers of this one. You are unfamiliar with this mountain range and the creatures that dwell in its shadows. You do not know the predators or their hunting patterns. You have no idea what could be dangerous to eat, and what not. Therefore, I am here to watch out for you.’ His expression was serious and his tone matched how he felt about the severity of the situation.

Sabra could not fault him for his reasoning. It was sound. _Dammit_.

‘ _And_ I came to seek your forgiveness for my callous words.’ He continued. ‘I spoke without keeping in mind your unfamiliarity with this world and its customs. I had no right to order you to obey. And I should have _never_ used your past against you like I did. It is inexusable.’ Thorin walked up to her, and, to her astonishment, knelt at her feet, knees sinking into the mud of the riverbank, holding her grey gaze with his blue one, an uncharacteristic expression of vulnerability falling over his face. Then he bowed his head in a display of humility. ‘Words cannot express how  _very_ sorry I am for hurting you. And although I know the words I said were cruel and undeserving of absolution, I beg your forgiveness.’

Bewildered by the sudden unexpected submissiveness of a male she was sure didn’t even know the _meaning_ of the word, Sabra was struck speechless. The only things heard were the wind in the trees, the babbling of the brook, and both their breathing. Looking down at the bowed head of the Dwarf King, she instinctively reached out her right hand and touched her fingers to his cheekbone. Her bewilderment reached even higher levels when he closed his eyes and leaned his face into her touch, the hairs of his beard tickling the underside of her palm and the tips of her fingers. Then his eyes opened and she gasped from what she saw in the intensity of his blue gaze. Sorrow, and shame, and hope, and... _admiration?_

‘I... I forgive you.’ She whispered hoarsely; her voice raspy from shock. It wasn’t a regular occurrence for her to have a very attractive, half naked Dwarf King kneeling at her feet, looking up at her as if she was the sole focus of his world.

The King released a deep sigh, looking visibly relieved, and lifted his left hand to cover hers, which was still cradling his face. When his fingers made contact with the swollen top of her hand, she let out an involuntary cry and in a reflex tried to pull back her hand. _Shit, that hurts._ A big, strong hand shot out and gingerly grabbed hold of her wrist, turning it so that Thorin could see the damage she’d done to her hand. He sucked in a breath.

‘What have you _done_?’ He asked, his tone one of disbelief and irritation.

Trying to pull her hand back, Sabra scrunched up her face when Thorin touched the wounds on her knuckles lightly.

‘Had a disagreement with a tree.’ She offered as explanation, flexing her fingers under his touch.

‘What did the tree ever do to _you_?’ The irritation was replaced by a slight undercurrent of humour as Thorin stood up from his crouch at her feet. ‘This should be cleaned, before it becomes infected.’ He pulled her towards the water and gave her a few seconds to shrug off her pack and her rifle, putting it next to his own weapons on the riverbank. Then he kneeled on a big flat stone that stuck out into the river, pulling her with him. He gestured for her to submerge her hand in the water. The coolness thankfully doing much to dull the pain. Carefully, the King started to wash away the dirt that had gathered around the scabs on her knuckles, taking care that he did not hurt her too much. Some of the scabs he had to tear loose, though, because they had dirt under them. She hissed when he did this and he sent her an apologetic grimace in return.

When he was done, he gestured for her to keep her hand submerged for a while longer. Standing up with a grace that she herself could not hope to mirror, he walked toward her pack.

‘You have bandages in here, yes?’ He looked up at her and raised an eyebrow as he opened the main compartment.

_How does he know that?!_

‘Have you been snooping through my belongings, your Majesty?’ She asked, slightly miffed.

He had the audacity to shrug casually; the muscles in his shoulders and chest rolling impressively with the movement. Sabra swallowed labouriously at seeing him so relaxed and at ease with himself, especially since he was still half undressed. It was a sight to behold. And it wasn’t something that she’d seen with him before. When he was with the company, he was almost always tense, and very aware of the resposibilities that lay upon his shoulders. Now, when he thought himself mostly unobserved, his bearing was almost carefree. It struck her then, that a young Thorin must have been so very similar to how Kili and Fili carried themselves.

Rummaging through her pack, he let out a triumphant grunt when he found what he was looking for.

‘I found it.’ He said, waving the roll of plasticised bandaging material in the air. He dropped her pack and walked back to where she was still kneeling next to the brook, lowering himself onto his knees again. Her hand was now numb from the freezing waters and she watched as he inspected the strange wrapping that protected the bandage. He frowned, looking for an opening in the packaging. ‘How do I open this?’ He asked, showing her the plastic wrapping.

Pulling her hand from the water, she took the package from him and tore it open with her teeth.

‘Usually I’d use a knife, but my hand is a bit useless at the moment.’ She held up her wounded hand, which was a bit colourless from how cold it was. Small rivulets of blood slowly ran down her knuckles and she quicly wound the bandage through her fingers and over her knuckles, creating a sort of woven protection for her hand.

‘You’ve done that before... You’ve been hurt before.’ Thorin concluded as he observed the routined movements with which she bandaged the wounds.

‘Yes. Too often to count, on too many body parts.’ Her voice was light, but there was a solemn undertone beneath it as she remembered the many times she’d gotten hurt during missions.

‘But you have almost no scars on your body. How is that possible?’ The tilt of his head showed Sabra that the King was curious about her battlefield experience.

It was true. Even the wounds she’d obtained during the attack, four weeks before, had closed up without much hindrance and had left little to no scarring behind. She shrugged.

‘I don’t know. I have never been very vulnerable to scarring, I guess. Not even as a child when I fell off... any high rocks I’d climbed upon.’ She’d wanted to say _‘my bike’_ , but changed it to ‘rocks’, because he wouldn’t have an inkling of what she was talking about. Tying up the loose ends of the bandage, she checked if everything was covered up neatly. It was.

Crinkling the plastic wrapping of the bandage in her left hand, she stood. Thorin followed her immediately, shadowing her as she made her way to her pack to put away the plastic waste. No reason to pollute this world with plastic, too. Her own world was evidence enough of the devastation the stuff could cause to the environment.

Afer disposing of the wrapping, shoving it into a sidepocket of her pack, she turned back to the King. Who was standing a lot closer than she’d anticipated. They were almost chest to chest. She could feel the heat radiating off of his bare torso. Startled, she looked up into his eyes, and took a careful step back when she saw how focused he was on her. _Holy shit. Intense... Breathe, Sabra, breathe._

‘Sorry, I wasn’t aware you were walking so close behind me. I shouldn’t have stopped so suddenly, you could have bumped into me and fallen over... or something.’ She babbled nervously, taking another step back. Him being half naked was _not_ good for her peace of mind. Or for calming her libido; because, in spite of her mind _screaming_ at her to get away from the intimidating male, her body was speaking a _whole_ other language. She’d never had her mind and her body be so at odds with each other. It was utterly confusing.

Thorin moved around her, walking in a circle, gazing upon her, and she followed him with her eyes until he was standing in front of her again. Then he took her hands in his, looking down at how his dwarfed hers, and frowned.

‘When I asked you to join my quest, you only asked for one thing in return; a place among my people for as long as you lived. You did not ask for gold or jewels, nor for any other promises. I am a King. You could have asked _anything_ from me. Why did you not?’ He asked.

Surprised by his question, and not a little bit distracted by his closeness, she tilted her head as she thought about the answer.

‘I have seen what greed does to people. It can bring out the monster in the most gentle of souls. Gold and jewels are worth naught when you don’t have friends; when you don’t have family. As for promises forced from Kings; those are also worth naught, when not freely given. Never ask for more than your adversary is willing to part with, and keep verbal contracts simple and clear. That way no-one feels disappointed, or deceived.’ She smiled at him. ‘And I don’t need much to be happy. Give me a roof over my head, work I like, time to relax when I need it, and about two to three meals a day, and I’m chuffed.’ She was silent for a second. ‘Ah, yes, and do _not_ try to impose your will upon me, because that will set me off and it will end _badly_.’

Chuckling, Thorin inclined his head at that last remark.

‘I will keep it in mind. I can’t promise you that it will not happen again, though.’

‘Didn’t think you could; with you being King and all.’ She nodded in understanding of his status among his people, and gave him a crooked grin. ‘Just know that I will fight that tendency of yours, _tooth and nail._ ’

‘Alright.’ He conceded to her statement with a nod and a small smile, which was somehow so beguiling that it made her heartbeat speed up. ‘That being said...’ He continued. ‘I would like to ask you if you would be inclined to reconsider my offer of joining my House.’

Both her eyebrows shot up in surprise and she licked her lips uncertainly, looking away from him; not noticing that the King’s eyes shot to her mouth and darkened at that small gesture.

‘But... I’m not pregnant. It’s enough for me to have a home among your people once this quest is over.’

‘What if that is not enough for me? What if I want to offer you my kinship, my House?’ Thorin’s quiet, deep voice vibrated through her, even when there was a foot of space between them. 

‘I’m sorry.  _What?_ ’ She wasn’t sure if she had heard him right.

‘I want you to belong to my House.’ He said, sounding so solemn that it caused goosebumps to appear on her arms.

Sabra couldn’t help but feel that she was missing something; like an extensive background education in Dwarven customs and traditions.

‘ _Why?_ ’ She asked. She had to know.

He looked a bit taken aback by her question. Had he expected her to acquiesce immediately, without questioning his motives? Then she saw the corner of his mouth twitch at his realisiation of her blatant disregard for his royal status.

‘Because you are _strong_ , and _loyal_ , and _honourable_ , and because you are a warrior and a survivor. You are not afraid to speak your mind and you know how to push back if I become too caught up in my own importance. I would be honoured to have you join my House. To be there when we take back the Lonely Mountain. When we take back my home.’ He paused for a moment, and then looked her in the eyes, his gaze passionately burning into hers. ‘When we take back _our_ home.’

 _Damn..._ If that didn’t do something for her.

She cleared her throat and blinked away the tears that inexplicably blurred her vision.

‘Oh, wow. That must be one of the most beautiful things anyone has ever said to me.’ Her voice was suddenly hoarse. ‘Alright.’ She acquiesced, inclining her head to the King.

Thorin’s voice was gentle when he spoke, his hands warmly holding hers, and his words formal.

‘I, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror; Heir to the House of Durin; King under the Mountain, hereby offer you, Sabra Ashford, my kinship, my protection, and my Halls, to be yours until the day you pass on from this world to the next.’ His expression was fierce as he kept her gaze captivated with his. ‘In exchange, you offer me, and my House, your loyalty and your strength, until the day you pass on from this world to the next. Do you accept this contract, Mistress Ashford?’

Sabra smiled up at Thorin when she understood.

‘Ah, it’s like a verbal contract, simple and clear. Just as I like it.’ She nodded. ‘Yes, I accept your offer, Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain. I swear to you that my allegiance will be yours until the day I pass on from this world to the next.’

In the same moment that she swore her allegiance to him, she could feel something approaching. It wasn’t a shift in something intangible this time, but more of a rumbling that was far off, but came closer, fast. Then it passed through her like the sudden blast of a hurricane wind. Or, at least, that’s how it felt to her. It left her breathless, and gasping, and wide-eyed.

‘Did you _feel_ that?’ She asked Thorin.

‘Did I feel _what_?’ He raised an eyebrow at her in bewilderment.

Looking around, she coulnd’t find anything amiss. The blast hadn’t felt ominous or dangerous, so it was probably just some strange magical storm she’d picked up on, or something. Thorin hadn’t felt it at all, and he was a being of this world. She shrugged, pushing away the niggling feeling at the back of her mind.

‘I don’t know. Must have imagined it.’

Thorin let go of her hands and started to untangle one of the gold clasps from his hair; it was at the end of one of his braids. Bending it open slightly and then removing it completely, he held it out to her.

‘This is embossed with the insignia of the Royal House of Durin, and with that of my own, the Oakenshield. It indicates that you belong to this House, and that all of the Dwarven folk of Middle Earh will recognise you as such when they see you carry it on your person. For a King does not part from his Royal beads lightly.’

Taking the clasp from him, she studied it. It was exquisitely made. The embossing and the filigree were of exceptionally high quality. Also, it was quite heavy, even if it was only as big as the top one and a half phalanges of her finger. It must have been made out of pure gold.

‘It’s beautiful.’ She said, admiringly.

She put the clasp in her right hand as she tried to find a lock of hair thick and long enough to hold it with her left.

The King stepped closer.

‘Allow me?’ He asked. Sabra gave her consent with a small wave of her hand. Somehow, Thorin managed to find hair that was long and thick enough to be twisted into a sort of ropy texture, just behind her left ear. He picked up the clasp from her hand, and attached it to the sad excuse for a ‘braid’. She could feel how his warm fingers laid the clasp against her scalp, unintentionally caressing the sensitive shell of her ear. ‘There you go.’ He sounded pleased with his work and had apparently missed the slight shiver that had traveled through her at his touch.

Thorin took her left hand in both of his and brought it to his lips. He kissed it reverently before he spoke in a guttural and strangely beautiful language.

‘ _Ni dûmê zasamkhihiya zahar, ni kurdumê zasamkhihi azhâr._ ’ *

This time, he was the one who gasped, and she could have sworn his eyes had glowed golden for a fraction of a second. Then a pins and needles feeling started to fan out from her hand, where his lips had touched her skin. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was quite disconcerting in the resulting numbness that suddenly spread towards her heart. Then a searing heat followed the numbness and she clawed at her sternum when it felt like her heart exploded in her chest, leaving an inferno behind. She stumbled forward and Thorin caught her against him; his strong arms enveloping her in his warmth.

‘ _Breathe. Allow it to pass. It will be alright._ ’ His deep voice murmured against her temple. Her jaw was pressed against his clavicle as she breathed deeply against his neck; his scent filling her nose and lungs. She felt weak and was sure that she would have collapsed if Thorin hadn’t been holding her to him.

‘What did you _do_?’ She panted, forcing the black spots in her vision to go away through sheer willpower. The shiver that went through him when she spoke, her lips against the pulse point in his neck, didn’t escape her. Served him right for leaving her burning and breathless like this. _Fucker_.

‘It is the result of the claiming.’ He rumbled, his voice vibrating through her.

She stiffened at his casual explanation. His tone a bit _too_ casual for her peace of mind.

‘ _Claiming?!_ ’ She asked, alarmed.

He nodded.

‘Yes, I claimed you as my kin, and now we are bound as family. It is an ancient magic of my people, and it can be quite forceful if you are not prepared for it.’

Huffing indignantly, Sabra groaned into his skin. Earning her another shiver.

‘Warn a girl next time, will ya? I’m having trouble standing and I’m quite dizzy. Thanks a lot for that.’

A laugh escaped him as he gently escorted her to a rock and helped her sit down. He crouched in front of her and pushed her chin up with his fingers, so he could look her in the eyes.

‘I think you’ll live.’ He said, the corners of his mouth tilting up.

‘Yeah, yeah. I’ll live.’ She deadpanned. ‘Could you _please_ put on some clothes now? Because you are mighty distracting like this.’ Gesturing to his bare torso, she pulled a face.

Chuckling, he stood up and did as she said. Within minutes, he was clad in his armour, and long coat, once more.

It was then that they heard a loud rustling in the bushes that bordered on the river bank. 

Thorin whirled towards the sound, grabbed his sword and took on a defensive stance, while Sabra pulled her dagger out of its holster and pointed it into the direction of the ruckus. Pardon her very much if she just kept sitting on the boulder for just a few moments longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh-oh... What did she get herself into now? :O
> 
> * If you want to know what Thorin said, then stay tuned. ;) (ps. I know nothing of Khuzdul. Blame the internet for my mistakes, thanks)
> 
> ————————
> 
> Feed the muse! It causes her to make me write giant chapters!
> 
> Kudos are also very much appreciated :)
> 
> Cheers!


	19. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Worry, Pissed-Off-ness, and Answers... Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own my OFC and the storyline you don’t recognise.
> 
> Still don’t make any money from this writing thingy of mine.
> 
> This is my Middle Earthy Sandbox. Also known as MES... It really is...
> 
> ———————
> 
> This is a rough first draft.
> 
> Not beta’d.
> 
> Lightly spelling checked.
> 
> All mistakes are my own.

Chapter 17

 

Not a second later, Gandalf came bursting from the underbrush, a frantic expression on his face. He circumnavigated Thorin and advanced on Sabra. Crouching down in front of her, grasping her shoulders and shaking her forcefully.

‘ _What_ did you _do_? What did you _tell_ him?!’ His voice was rushed, with and undertone of panic in it.

Sabra tried to worm her way out of Gandalf’s hold, but it was too strong. _Way_ too strong; especially for such an old man. She distractedly wondered if the wizard wore the guise of an old man on purpose; so people would underestimate him; let him get away with more.

Gandalf shook her once more, his voice louder and more powerful this time. She could feel the insistent magical push behind it.

‘ _Sabra_! What did you _do_?!’

Frowning, she grasped his right wrist with her left hand, and forced his hand away from where he had her shoulder in a painful grip, by pushing her thumb into the pressure point that made his hand strengthless.

‘ _Stop_ using your magic on me, old man. It doesn’t do _anything_ , but alert me to your presence.’ She saw how his eyes widened, by both her ease of rendering his hand useless, and by the remark that she was able to feel -and fight off- his magical manipulations. ‘And I didn’t _do_ anything, or _tell_ anyone anything. What are you on about?’

‘Did you not feel that rumbling? It was like an earthquake. I _know_ that you felt she shifts, when you told me things which I shouldn’t know. You _must_ have felt this one also; it was so much stronger. And then there was the tilting vertigo, not minutes later. It felt like the universe shifted on its axes before righting itself again.’ Gandalf studied her face, his eyes narrowing. ‘You _did_ feel it, didn’t you? Please, tell me it hadn’t anything to do with you.’

_Ah... Hm..._

‘Maybe?’ She grimaced at the way her voice rose at the end.

The wizard let out a longsuffering sigh, and stood, frowning down on her like she was an annoyance.

‘What happened?’

‘Wellll... That first thing that happened, might... And I say, _might_ , have had something to do with myself swearing an oath of allegiance to Thorin, and to the House of Durin. It happened right after...’ Her voice trailed off and she scratched her ear.

 _‘You did what?’_ His voice was like a whisper. Up until then, she had no idea a whisper could sound that threatening.

‘Um... swore an oath of allegi...’

‘I _**heard**_ you the first time!’

‘Then why did you as...’

‘What were your _exact_ words?’

‘Can you stop interrupting me? It’s annoying.’

If looks could kill, she’d be a pile of ash right then and there.

‘Oh, _alright_. Thorin offered me his kinship, his protection, and his Halls; to be mine until the day I pass on from this world to the next; in exchange for my strenght and my loyalty to his House. And I accepted; swearing allegiance to him and his House, until the day I pass on from this world to the next. And that’s when the rumbling thing happened.’

Gandalf rubbed his face. Looking very tired and old all of a sudden.

‘He offered you... his _Protection_... his _Halls_... His _House_... His _Family_. To be yours until the day you die.’ He sent a sharp look to Thorin, who stubbornly stared back with a darkly recalcitrant expression on his face.

‘Yes...’ She hated how unsure her voice sounded, but she was sure she was missing something.

‘And you accepted his offer... And swore your allegiance to him.’

‘Yes?’ Crossing her arms in front of her, she had the distinct feeling the other shoe was about to drop... And she _wasn’t_ going to like it. At. All.

‘Then what happened?’

‘Thorin gave me one of the rings from his hair, attaching it to mine.’ She turned her head, so Gandalf could see the golden bead that was clasped onto her hair, behind her ear. Gandalf made a surprised sound in the back of his throat before he gestured for her to continue. ‘Then he kissed my hand, and said something in a strange language. And then there was this burn traveling up my arm. It was like a raging inferno, and it felt like my heart _exploded_ in my chest. I became very dizzy... And that’s when you came barging in, all judging and pushy.’ Sending him an irritated look, Sabra stood and kicked a small stone into the brook; her frustration with the wizard as high as it had ever been. A sudden realisation dawned on her then, and she turned back to the old man, who was muttering under his breath. ‘Wait, that dizzyness... It _wasn’t_ from whatever Thorin did? It was another _shift_?’

Gandalf looked at her, a worried expression on his face.

‘It was. The most severe one up until now.’ He sighed warily and turned to Thorin. ‘I _need_ to know what you said to her. It must have been of great importance to warrant such a shift in the fate of all of Middle Earth.’ The King looked away from the old man, and crossed his arms in front of him, pursing his lips together.

‘Yes, _your Majesty..._ I’d also like to know what you said to me in that strange language, for it to burn me from the outside in like it did. And for it to cause Gandalf to go all berserk on me.’ Sabra agreed with the old man. She was starting to suspect that the verbal contract, which had seemed so simple when she’d accepted it, had had more power and meaning behind it than what was suggested by Thorin’s casual behaviour, earlier. _Especially_ now that he seemed reluctant to reveal to Gandalf what he had said.

Suddenly, Balin stepped out from behind a tree, followed by Oin and Dwalin.

‘Yes, Thorin. What is it that you are so determined to hide?’ Balin asked. Sabra saw how Thorin almost shrunk when he heard the older Dwarf’s austere tone of voice. She reckoned that Balin must have become a surrogate father and confidant to him when both his father and grandfather were slain, in spite of Thorin already being grown when that had happened. Maybe the Dwarf had also been a constant in his life when he had been a child, because the way he spoke to the King, sounded more like a worried father than like a mere member of the company.

Balin meaningfully shared a look with Oin and Dwalin before looking back at Thorin with a frown on his face.

‘We _all_ felt the invoking of the magic of our forebears. _What_ is it you did?’ Asked Dwalin.

‘Say the words you spoke, Thorin.’ Gandalf pushed.

Thorin grunted something unintelligible and turned his back to them.

‘ _Fine_.’ He grit out between clenched teeth. ‘I made a promise. I said, _Ni dûmê zasamkhihiya zahar, ni kurdumê zasamkhihi azhâr._ ’

All three Dwarves simultaneously sucked in a shocked breath, while Gandalf groaned and facepalmed. Sabra concluded that it could _not_ be anything good then. _Shite. Should have asked about any small print, dumbass..._ She admonished herself.

‘ _What?_ ’ Whispered Balin, his tone disbelieving and horrified. Then he turned to Sabra. ‘Did he walk around you?’ When he saw her confused face he repeated himself, sounding harried. ‘Did he walk in a circle around you, while you stood still?’

Sabra thought back.

‘I don’t think so...’ She heard a collective sigh of relief go through the present Dwarves who were not Thorin. ‘No... _Wait_... He did. I thought it was weird...’ Groans were heard. ‘ _What is going on?_ ’ She was starting to feel very alarmed.

Balin stepped closer to her, his eyes on her hands.

‘Did he give you a golden ring?’ He asked.

‘No.’ She answered truthfully. At least, she thought it was truthfully, until Gandalf cleared his throat to get her attention and then rubbed behind his left ear, throwing her a meaningful look. 

_Ah... Shite..._

‘I mean, it wasn’t a _ring_ per se... But it’s gold. And round...’ Turning her head, she showed the Dwarves the clasp that she now carried in her hair. Both Dwalin and Oin went pale behind their beards, but stayed quiet. Seemingly struck speechless by whatever Thorin had done.

Balin gasped at seeing Thorin’s royal bead on her person. He whirled around, facing Thorin.

‘You _**cannot**_!’ He said, sounding abhorred. ‘She is no Dwarrowdam! She is not of the royal line! What have you _**done?!**_ ’

‘Can anyone **_PLEASE_** tell me what is going on?! What does this all _**mean?!**_ ’ Sabra yelled, her nerves completely shot from all the back and forth between the Dwarves without any of them them letting her in on the ‘ _secret_ ’.

‘It _means_ , Mistress Ashford, that Thorin has married you.’ Gandalf sighed, shaking his head in disapproval of the Dwarf King’s actions.

‘ ** _WHAT?!_** ’ The roar tore from her throat, and Sabra turned to Thorin, who suddenly looked very nervous to be the sole recipient of her attention.

He held up his hands in surrender and took a step back.

‘I did _not_ marry her!’ He called out to Gandalf. ‘I did _**NOT**_ _marry_ you!’ He said to her, trying to appease her and eyeing the karambit knives that were sudenly in her hands with trepidation. ‘ _Please_ , allow me to explain.’ He looked her in the eyes, pleadingly.

Frowning, and fuming, she seriously considered his dismemberment, but eventually decided on hearing him out.

‘Start. Talking.’ She grunted, her eyes flashing silver between her black lashes.

‘I altered the invocation! The vow I made was _not_ a wedding vow! It is meant to connect you to my House; to bind you to the House of Durin, not merely through words, but also through _life-force_. The vow translates roughly to, _In my Halls you will find a house, through my heart you will find a home..._ ’

Sabra looked at Balin to see if the King spoke the truth. The Dwarf rubbed his chin in thought, and she could see him translate the words in his head. Then he grunted, and nodded.

‘He is _right_ , it is different. They are _not_ the wedding vows.’

Thorin nodded, visibly relieved that his advisor had substantiated his claims.

‘I walked around you, to symbolise the protection you will receive from my kin and myself, and I gave you the bead so you will be recognised as one of my House.’

Again, Balin nodded, now more sure of himself and of Thorin’s use -and alteration- of their ancient magic.

‘It is true, the invocation of the vow, and the symbolism of the circle and the bead, have bound you to the House of Durin, and the House of Durin to you.’ He made a neutral humming sound in the back of his throat. ‘Well then... Welcome to the family.’ He said, once more his own jovial self. ‘There is one more thing, though... There _might_ be a slight side effect from the alteration of the vow.’

‘What’s that?’ The day couldn’t get much stranger than this, could it? Putting her knives away in their holsters, she sat back down on the boulder.

‘Well, the _through my heart you will find a home_ part, it might have bound your life-force to Thorin’s...’

_The fuck?!..._

She sighed, suddenly feeling too tired to make a fuss. _Of course_ there was a price to pay. Wasn’t there always?

‘And that means?’ Why was her voice suddenly so slurred?

‘It means that you will probably live as long as a Dwarf from the line of Durin... Sabra? Are you feeling alright, dear?’

Why did Balin’s voice sound like it was under water?

Sabra lifted her hand up to her face and scratched at a sudden tickle under her nose. Her hand came back bloody, and was trembling.

‘ _Sabra!_ ’ Thorin called out.

Why was he looking so worried?

Why were they all saying her name?

Then she felt the tremors begin along her spine, and a blinding pain shot through her head.

The last thing she saw was Thorin’s horrified face as he cought her when she toppled from the boulder.

_Oh... Fu..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... That’s that, then... On to the next chapter...
> 
> Don’t forget to feed(back) the muse. She also likes Kudos. ;)
> 
> Until we meet again!


	20. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the road again...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing.
> 
> I make no money from this story.
> 
> This is my M.E.S. :)
> 
> —————————
> 
> There’s a bit of the movie in here. Also not mine... ;)

Chapter 18

 

Just like on the first day she’d woken up in Middle Earth, she slowly became aware of the fact that she was on a horse, swaying with its gait. Smell and hearing returned within seconds after that. _Oh, right... The smell... Urgh..._ She wrinkled her nose in discomfort. Behind her was a strong body, keeping her upright as she leaned against it. There was an iron band wrapped around her waist, snuggly pressing her against the person behind her; probably to keep her from falling off the horse. It was just a bit too snug for her liking, and became even tighter when she wiggled around a bit to loosen it.

Groaning, she lifted a hand to her temple, and massaged it, trying to relieve the light, but persistant headache that had nestled itself into her brain. She turned her head to the side and found herself nuzzling someone’s neck. The person behind her tensed and expelled a surprised breath... _Oops..._

Wait, she knew that musky scent... _Thorin_. She was on a horse. With Thorin... _What the..._

Then it suddenly all rushed back to her.

‘ _So, what is the life expectancy we’re talking about here?_ ’ Was the first thing out of her mouth, as if no time had passed between Balin’s remark on an increased life-span and the moment she woke up. It was disconcerting to her how weak her voice sounded. She was only able to produce a raspy whisper. Her mouth was so dry that her tongue felt like sandpaper against her palate.

Behind her, there was a rumble in Thorin’s chest. Was he _laughing_ at her?

‘You’re awake.’ Was all he said; the amusement in his voice barely masked.

‘ _No. I’m talking in my sleep._ ’ She rasped weakly, the intended sarcasm not really hitting its mark. ‘ _How long was I out?_ ’

‘You have been in and out of consciousness for the past two days, but this is the first time that you have been lucid.’

‘ _Two days?!... No wonder I’m so thirsty..._ ’ Licking her lips, she tried to sit up straighter; only to be overtaken by a bad case of vertigo. She swayed and tilted dangerously to the left, unable to keep her equilibrium. _Shite..._

‘Careful! You have had a very severe seizure, _and_ you lost a large amount of blood.’ Thorin warned as he tightened his hold on her, effortlessly putting her back upright in front of him. He reached behind him and his hand came back holding a water flask. ‘Here, try to drink some water. It will do you good.’ He uncorked the flask and handed it to her. ‘Small sips, or you’ll make yourself sick.’

Sabra nodded and took a few small sips; the water feeling heavenly in her parched mouth. A contented sigh escaped her, and she took a few more sips. Too soon, Thorin’s hand closed around hers to halt her. She made a discontent sound.

‘ _Come on, I’ve only had, like, five sips._ ’ As she tried to wrestle the flask out of the King’s grip, it occurred to her that she was holding it with her right hand. Without feeling any pain from the wounds she’d sustained a few days before. Looking down, she saw that the bandages were gone, and where there had been bloody knuckles before, was now flawless new skin stretching over bone and tendon. _Weird_. No matter how fast she usually healed, she’d _never_ healed as fast as this before...

‘ _Heh... That’s strange..._ ’ She whispered to herself as she flexed her fingers; Thorin having taken the flask away from her while she was distracted by the fact that her hand felt normal. Not even a remnant of pain or bruising had remained.

‘What is strange?’ Came Thorin’s voice, interrupting her thoughts.

She lowered her hand and laid it on the pommel of the saddle to help her keep her balance.

‘Oh, nothing...’ Thinking of something to say so he wouldn’t press, she turned her head and looked up at him. ‘So, to what age do Dwarves of your line live?’

He looked slightly uneasy at this question.

‘Hm... Up until about four centuries... Give or take a few years.’

Her eyes widened at this information.

‘ ** _What?_** ’ This time she almost completely turned around in the saddle, disbelief written all over her face as she looked at him. ‘Do you mean to say that my life expectancy has more than _quadrupled?!_ ’

Thorin frowned at her risky behaviour that had almost thrown him from the saddle, and he lifted her and put her onto the saddle the right way round again.

‘No, your life-force is now bound to mine, and when I die, you will also die. As I am a hundred-and-ninety-five years old, you have about two hundred more years ahead of you.’

Sabra felt her heart plummet at that new tidbit of information. _Fuck_. Didn’t he die somewhere at the end of that third movie? She desperately tried to remember. _Fuck!_

‘Well... You could have led with that bit when you asked me to join your House... I _might_ have had a few more objections, then.’ Her voice was biting. ‘Anything _else_ you haven’t told me? Any more skeletons in your closet?’

‘Any what in my _what_?’ He seemed confused by her word use.

‘Never mind. Are you hiding _anything_ else from me that is important for me to know?’ Sighing in frustration, she slumped forward in the saddle, leaning on the pommel, creating some space between herself and the infuriatingly secretive male sitting behind her.

‘ _No_. I am not.’ Came his answer. He sounded honest. But when hadn’t he?... He had always been honest. He’d just not told her the _entirety_ of the consequences of her choice. And that stung. 

‘ _Alright_... So, all I have to do is keep you alive and stop you from doing anything stupid that will cut your life -and mine- short... _Great_...’ She groaned as she thought about all the danger that lay before them during the quest. Another sigh escaped her. This one more resigned. ‘Well... We will all die one day. Won’t we?...’ Leaning back against him, she looked up, observing his tense expression. ‘What if _I_ die? What happens to you? Will _you_ die, too?’

‘No. I bound your life to the House of Durin, not the other way around. You will live longer. I will _not_ live shorter.’ Was his curt answer.

‘That’s not really fair, is it?’ Sabra looked forward again, to where Gandalf was riding in front of them, not entirely sure if she agreed with the King’s reasoning.

‘The life you have is frail and easily snuffed out. It is the right choice to enforce it with a Dwarven life-force, and _not_ the other way around.’ His tone was final, and she accepted the fact that he did not seem to want to discuss it any further. His reasoning turned out to be sound enough. Only, he didn’t know what _she_ knew. And that was that he was going to die within the next year or so. So, there was nothing else to do, than to make sure that he survived the coming months, and the war that would be waged. Her life depended on it... literally. _Dammit_. _Time to start training again. And keep my eye on that stubborn arse of his..._ Okay, so maybe it wasn’t all doom and gloom. She snickered to herself.

‘What is it?’ Thorin asked, his tone betraying his curiosity.

‘I’m gonna stick to you like glue.’ She chuckled. ‘Keep you all _safe_ and _fluffy_. Be your own personal body guard.’

The King groaned.

‘ _Don’t_ make me regret my choice.’ He warned.

‘Oh, you _will_.’ Sabra let out an evil laugh that had Thorin grumbling under his breath, and attracted the attention of the others. It wasn’t long before Bofur sidled up his horse next to theirs.

‘Hello, lass. How are ye feelin’? Ye scared us with that last episode. We weren’t sure If ye’d wake up again, when even Gandalf couldn’t bring ye back all the way.’ He said as greeting. ‘Ye _did_ sleep through a very persistant deluge, though, so that’s a positive. I was wet up to me underthings, but Thorin here kept ya as dry as he could with yer coat... and his.’

Just as she was going to ask questions about that, they rode up a hill, towards an old, dilapidated house; which looked more like a shed. The shingles all but gone from the roof, and the stone walls damaged in places.

‘We will camp here for the night.’ Thorin called out to his company, effectively cutting off any conversation between Bofur and herself. He dismounted the horse, and helped her down, supporting her when her legs almost gave out as her feet hit the ground.

 _Fuck_ , she _really_ wasn’t well, was she? For the first time since her seizures had started up again, she felt worry bloom in the pit of her stomach. What if she was deteriorating? What if, this time around, it _was_ something dangerous that threatened her health? She was sure that even a hardy Dwarven life-force would have trouble fighting off a cancerous tumor, or something equally deadly.

Thorin escorted her to the house, where there was a stone bench set against a crumbling wall. She lowered herself onto it and let out a breath of relief. The dizziness she’d been feeling before seemed to have disappeared completely, and she was sure that when she’d had the chance to eat something, she’d be feeling much better.

The King turned away from her once he’d made sure that she wouldn’t keel over the moment he let go of her.

‘ _Fili, Kili,_ look after the ponies. Make sure you stay with them.’

Both youngsters answered in the affirmative.

Then he spoke to the rest.

‘Set up camp... _Oin, Gloin._ Get a fire going.’

Oin answered with an ‘Aye’.

Behind her, from inside the house, Gandalf muttered something about a farmer and his family, living in the farmhouse. He sounded troubled.

‘I think it would be _wiser_ to move on.’ He said out loud.

Thorin had come walking back to where she was sitting and he turned towards the wizard when the old man continued talking. ‘We _could_ make for the Hidden Valley.’ His voice was once again accompanied by a magical push, directed at the King. Sabra sighed when she almost immediately picked it up. Didn’t that old man ever learn? Thorin was too hardheaded to be swayed by mindtricks of a conjurer.

‘I _told_ you already... I will _**not**_ go near that _place_.’ Almost tangible disdain dripped from his words as the King stalked past Sabra, and into the farmhouse to join Gandalf.

Sabra turned her head to the side, tilting it so that she could hear the conversation that was carried on inside.

‘ _Why_ not?’ Gandalf asked, his voice hushed, with a current of urgency in it. ‘The Elves could help us. We could get _food_. _Rest_... _Advice_.’

‘I do not _need_ their advice.’ Thorin objected; his voice was as hostile as Gandalf’s was pleading.

‘They might be able to help Sabra with her seizures. Maybe even _heal_ her.’ The wizard was grasping at straws. Thorin would never put her health before the quest. And she was proven right in that assertion by his answer.

‘Mistress Ashford is going to be _fine_. The Dwarven life-force that is now part of her will help her heal. She does _not_ need the Elves.’ His voice had a finality to it that made Gandalf retrace his steps.

‘We have a map, that we _agreed_ , Lord Elrond could _help_ us...’

‘ _Help!_...’ The King spit out the word as if it was the equivalent to something utterly loathesome. ‘A dragon attacks Erebor. What _**help**_ came from the Elves?...’

Gandalf grunted softly at that statement.

‘Orcs plunder Moria... _Desecrate_ our sacret Halls... The Elves looked on, and did _**NOTHING**_.’ The last word was hissed in such a spiteful manner that Sabra could feel goosebumps appear on her arms. ‘You _ask_ me to seek out the _very people_ who betrayed my grandfather... betrayed my father...’ Thorin fell quiet.

‘You are _neither_ of them. I did _not_ give you that map and key for you to hold on to the **_past!_** ’ Gandalf started to become very annoyed with the Dwarf King. Sabra could hear it in his voice.

‘I did _not know_ they were yours to _**keep!**_ ’ Was Thorin’s immediate answer. His tone was vicious.

Oh, Gandalf was not going to like that; she was sure of it. And indeed, a highly irritated grunt was heard from the wizard, before he stormed out of the house, striding past her and then through the camp. Behind her there was nothing but a loaded silence.

‘Everything... Alright?’ Came Bilbo’s unsure voice from where he and Balin were standing next to one of the ponies. ‘ _Gandalf!_ Where are you going?’ He looked on as the fuming wizard stormed past.

‘To seek the company of the _only one_ around here who has any _sense_.’ Gandalf growled.

‘And who’s that?’ Bilbo called after him.

‘ _ **My** self_, mister Baggins!’ was his answer, just before he disappeared from her line of sight.

_Well... Shit... Did we just lose our wizard?..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... Shit... O.o
> 
> Until next time, my lovelies! :)


	21. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trooooooollllllsssss!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own everything, except the things and people you reconise from JRRT’s stories and/or PJ’s movies.
> 
> I make no money from this story.
> 
> I just have so much fun playing in my Sandbox! :D

Chapter 19

 

It had become dark, or, at least, a very gloomy twilight, by the time supper was ready. Bombur had taken his time with crafting a hearty stew.

After Gandalf had stormed off, a very grumpy Thorin had emerged from the farmhouse, bellowing for Bombur to go make them some food. Then he had stalked off to god knows where, never even acknowledging her, or anyone else for that matter, as she looked up at him from her perch on the bench when he walked by. He must have known that she’d heard most, if not all, of the conversation that had taken place inside the house, but he did not seem to care.

Sabra had tried to stand up after having been seated on the bench for ten more minutes, and when that hadn’t given her any trouble, balance-wise, she’d walked down the hill a bit, to where Bofur and Bombur had been setting up their improvised kitchen, and sat herself down on a fallen log, resting her elbows on her knees, and leaning in, observing how the brothers worked together in tandem to chop up all vegetables, and roots, and meat, which were going to be part of a stew. She’d offered to help, but they’d protested, and she’d shrugged. _Their loss..._  

Instead, she’d conversed with them; about their lives before the quest, about their family bonds, and about what they were going to do with their share of the treasure when they finished the quest. Bombur was going to start an eating house, either in the Blue Mountains, or in Erebor. Which didn’t surprise her in the least. The Dwarf had an affinity for food. And not just for eating it. He was a _very_ decent cook. Bofur hadn’t any plans, yet. Which didn’t surprise her, either. He was a person who lived in the moment, and didn’t really look to the future all that much.

When the stew was done, Sabra was the first one to get a bowl of food. Bofur had pushed it into her hands, and it was so full that it had sloshed over the side a bit.

‘This is _too much!_ ’ She exclaimed, staring at the enormous quantity of food.

‘ _Nonsense_.’ Bombur said. ‘Ye haven’t eaten in two days. Ye _need_ it.’ And that was that. Grunting at the dwarf, she accepted a wooden spoon and started ladling the stew into her mouth. As soon as she tasted it, she suddenly felt how ravenous she really was, and the stew was gone within minutes. She stared down into the empty bowl in surprise; not able to remember if she’d _ever_ eaten so much in such a short stretch of time before.

‘Ye want some more?’ Bombur asked when she returned the spoon and bowl to him. She shook her head.

‘No, thank you, I couldn’t eat anything else. It was _delicious_ , though.’ She added, and saw how Bombur almost started to glow from pride.

Bofur was filling up another bowl with stew, when Bilbo approached them from where he’d been staring out into the night.

‘He’s been a long time.’ He said, sounding a bit worried.

‘Who?’ Asked Bofur, distractedly.

‘ _Gandalf_.’

‘He’s a _wizard_ , he does as he chooses.’ Bofur took two full bowls of stew and two spoons, and shoved them into Bilbo’s hands. ‘Here, do us a favour... Take this to the lads.’ He quickly turned back to his brother and slapped him on the hand when the Dwarf tried to commandeer another portion of stew for himself. _Is it the third, or the fourth?_ Sabra wondered, snickering to herself.

‘ _Stop it!_ ’ Bofur admonished his brother. ‘You’ve had _plenty_.’ Then he went on to ladle more of the stew into bowls, handing them out to the Dwarves who had sauntered up to the fire when they saw that supper was ready.

Bilbo had strolled off towards where Fili and Kili were watching the ponies, and somehow Sabra felt worried about him. She knew it was nonsense. It was quiet around these parts. Quite safe. But _still_... There was this niggling feeling in her stomach...

Sighing, she stood up to check up on the two youngsters and the Hobbit. Knowing herself, she wouldn’t feel comfortable until having made sure that they were safe. On her way over to the fenced off part of the farmstead, where they’d ‘stabled’ the horses, she passed Thorin, who was almost invisible while sitting in the dark, against a tree, eating stew. He looked up when she walked past him.

‘ _Where_ are _you_ going?’ His voice was deep, and his tone displeased.

_Great. A grumpy King to deal with on top of everything else..._

Frowning, she turned to him and tilted her head.

‘What’s it to _you_?’ She challenged. She might share a... life-force? Whatever - _fucking new age crap_ -... with him now, and she might have sworn her loyalty to his House, but that _didn’t_ mean he got a vote on what she did, when she did it, where she went, when she went there, or order her around, whenever he felt like it. Serfdom didn’t agree with her. And the sooner he understood that, the better. Just like the UK army had also come to understand, years earlier. Yeah, _that_ hadn’t ended well... Maybe _not_ just like them...

He set aside his bowl and spoon and stood, putting him almost toe to toe with her.

‘It is not _safe_ to leave the camp on your own. You can’t just walk away like that.’

‘ _Really?_ Because I just saw Bilbo do the exact same thing, not ten minutes ago.’ She wasn’t having this sexist nonsense. ‘He went right that way.’ Sabra pointed at where Bilbo had disappeared between the trees. ‘And you didn’t stop _him_ from leaving the ‘safety’ of the fire.’

‘Yes, but he’s not a...’

‘Not a _what_ , Thorin? Not a _woman?_ ’ She fumed. ‘Think _hard_ before you finish that sentence!’

‘Not a member of _my House_.’ He finished, sounding triumphant; taking the wind right out of her sails. _Fucker._

‘Oh... hm... Good save...’ She had to hand it to him, he thought quick on his feet.

‘Thank you.’ He murmured, humour sparkling in his eyes. He stepped closer to her, taking her left hand in his right, gently caressing her knuckles with his thumb. ‘Will you _please_ go back to the fire, Sabra?’

She made a discontent sound in the back of her throat.

‘ _Maaaannn_.’ She stretched the word as she shook her head. ‘Don’t _say_ it like that... I can’t refuse when you say it like _that_...’ Looking up at him, she saw how the skin around his eyes crinkled as the corners of his mouth tipped upward.

‘I know...’ His voice was deep and gravelly, and its tone did weird things to her tummy. _Fuuuuck..._ Her breathing sped up a fraction.

‘I... Um...’ She had trouble forming sentences... and words. What _was_ it with this Dwarf and his ability to make her go from anger to confused arousal in five seconds flat?!... _**Focus** , Sabra!_ ‘I... Um... just wanted to check up on Bilbo, and the boys. It somehow doesn’t _feel_ right.’

Alarmed, Thorin turned his head into the direction of the horse pens.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve had this niggling feeling of wrongness all evening long, and it just _won’t_ go away.’ She explained.

Just when Thorin let go of her hand and took a step into the direction of where his nephews were guarding the horses, both nephews came running from betwen the trees, identical frantic expressions on their faces.

‘ _TROLLS!_ ’ Hissed Fili as loudly as he dared. ‘ _Three of them._ ’

‘ _What?!_ ’ Thorin sounded surprised and horrified at the same time, grabbing his nephews by the arms and checking them over for any injuries.

 _Oooooooh... Fuuuuuuuuuck... We’ve come to **that** part..._ Sabra kicked herself mentally... multiple times... for missing the entire build up to the troll encounter when she’d been in the cinema with her flavour of the month at that time.

‘Where’s Bilbo?’ Asked Bofur, who suddenly stood next to her. _Where did he come from?_

‘He’s tryin’ to get the ponies back from the trolls.’ Kili said.

‘What? _Why?_ ’ Disbelief and worry coloured Bofur’s tone.

Fili pulled a face.

‘We _might_ have encouraged him to go save the ponies. Him being a burglar and all... We thought he could do it, but he got himself caught.’

Thorin cursed under his breath.

‘We _will_ have words about this!’ He growled at his nephews, who had the instinct to both look quite sheepish, and chastised. Then he stomped back to the fire, rounding up all the other Dwarves. ‘Grab your weapons! We have a burglar to save, and trolls to slay.’ Those words were all it took for them to spring to their feet and arm themselves to the teeth. Sabra was impressed with how fast they were battle ready.

She checked if her glock was loaded and if all her knives were in their right places and easily accessible.

When a heavy hand landed on her shoulder, she startled a bit; adrenaline already coursing through her system. She looked up to see Thorin.

‘Hey.’ She greeted him.

‘I need you to stay here, guard the camp.’

_You’ve got to be kidding me._

‘Against _what?_ Robber _squirrels_ who could steal our _food?!_ ’ Behind her, she heard someone choke on a laugh. ‘Or trolls? Whom I will vanquish _all on my own_ after they’ve taken all of you out. Yeah, _**not**_ going to happen.’ She frowned at the King. ‘ _Come **on**_ , Thorin, I can’t let you guys go fight some trolls while I stay behind. You’re my kin now; and that protection thing goes _both_ ways, you know.’

‘You are _not_ well...’ He started to object.

‘I’m well _enough_.’ She interjected. ‘Rest and food have helped me recover from that seizure. I’m as good as new.’ _Liar_. Her mind said. _Oh, shut up, bitch._ She retorted.

Thorin narrowed his eyes at her, trying to discern if she was embellishing the truth. Which of course she was.

‘Uncle, we have to _go!_ ’ Fili’s tone was pressing.

The King nodded to him.

‘ _Alright_.’ He said to Sabra. ‘But stay close to me, and _don’t_ take any unnecessary risks.’

Sabra stared at him with an incredulous expression on her face.

‘Have you even _**met**_ me?’ She asked. When he started to scowl at her, she backtracked. ‘ _Right_. _**No**_ risks. On you like glue. _Got it._ ’ She gave him two thumbs up.

Shaking his head at her antics, he turned towards the Dwarves and silently gestured for them to follow him and his nephews, leading the group up to where the trolls were ‘conversing’ with Bilbo.

When they came to the clearing, Kili stepped out of the bushes almost immediately, and hacked into one of the trolls’ legs, making him squeal in pain.

‘Drop him!’ He shouted at the troll who had Bilbo’s leg in his hand, suspending him upside down.

‘You _wha_ ’?!’ Said the troll.

‘I said... _Drop_ him.’ Kili repeated, panting. He got a face full of Hobbit for his bravery when the troll chucked Bilbo at him.

‘ _Wait! What is he doing?! Don’t we need a pl..._ ’ Her whispering was interrupted by a battle cry that came from the group of Dwarves, who, as one, stormed the clearing that held the three trolls and Bilbo. It was instant chaos.

‘Well... I guess _not_ , then...’ She said to no-one in particular; starting to severely doubt the battle experience of most, if not all, of them... _**Fucking Hell...**_

She was going nowhere _near_ that clusterfuck. She’d be of more use out here, instead of jumping around in the thick of it, fighting for her life with knives that were too small to do any damage to those trolls’ thick hides. Even the Dwarves’ swords hardly got through. And if they did, they didn’t do near enough damage. 

‘Fucking _stupidity_. All of this _shit_.’ She grumbled, taking aim at one of the trolls with her glock, and pulling the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trooooooooooooollllllsssssss!!!
> 
> Holy Shit...


	22. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More trolls...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own my OFC and the storyline you don’t recognise.
> 
> I make no money from this. Dammit.
> 
> This is my Middle Earthy Sandbox.
> 
> All hail JRRT & PJ :)

Chapter 20

 

Turned out, her bullets didn’t do _jack shit_. It was like shooting at an elephant with a BB-gun. Trolls were tough motherfuckers, it only pissed them off even more than they already were when bullet after bullet buried itself in their leathery hides. After she’d emptied almost an entire clip into one of them, she concluded that she should have brought the rifle. That one had the armour piercing bullets. It could take out a tank if she aimed well enough. She was wasting bullets with her current offense. _Dammit! Time to go back to the drawing table..._

She holstered her gun and circled the clearing, searching for a high enough tree to climb. If she could get onto the shoulders of one of them, then she could bury her dagger inside an eye, effectively blinding the beast, and maybe even push it through into the brain. That should kill instantly... In theory...

Looking out over the chaos, she saw that Ori had the right idea. He aimed high with his catapult and shot a rock into the eye of one of the trolls. Resulting in one pissed off troll. _Oh... oh no..._ The troll pursued Ori and then another troll grabbed the Dwarf by the head, in a bone crushing grip, Ori’s head being completely swallowed by the troll’s gigantic hand. Sabra could hear him scream in terror.

Before she could think about the risk she was about to take, she was already moving, her instincts taking over. She needed to save the young Dwarf. Jumping out from between the trees, Sabra danced around Ori’s kicking legs and ducked under the troll’s other hand, which was making a grab at her. She pulled her dagger out of its sheath, and slashed into the inside of the troll’s thigh as she slid on her knees between its legs and sprung back to her feet on its other side. The troll stumbled forward in confusion looking around himself to try and locate her again; thankfully loosening the crushing grip he had on Ori, but still not dropping him

Then, suddenly, there was Thorin, somehow flying towards the troll and hacking into its arm with the Dwarven sword he was wielding. The troll squealed and dropped Ori, while Thorin landed heavily on the ground, on his feet, next to Sabra, and hacked into the troll’s leg.

‘ _Hey_.’ She said with a grin. ‘Nice move.’ Her grin disappeared when he whirled toward her and she noticed the intensity of his gaze. It burned into hers, his expression one of aggression and fierceness as his teeth flashed white between his tautly pulled lips. His usually crystalline blue eyes were so dark that they almost seemed black. _Holy. Fuck. **Someone’s** in battle mode..._ It was magnificent to behold, a shiver going down her spine as her body responded involuntarily. _The fuck?_

He grunted in response to her compliment. Stepping closer to her and ducking to avoid being hit in the head by an airborne Gloin, he visually checked her over for any injuries. ‘Stay close.’ His raspy command was clear, and she shook herself from the sudden attraction that had hit her like a sledge hammer.

Concluding that this was not the time to go against him, Sabra only nodded and followed him across the battlefield, slashing and stabbing at anything troll that came her way. Thorin was hacking and hewing with his sword as they fought back to back, dancing around each other with an ease that surprised her.

For a few moments, it looked like the Dwarves were winning. Then the trolls had somehow gotten a hold of Bilbo, and had him spread-eagle within seconds, gripping him by the arms and legs. The fighting came to a screeching halt.

‘Lay down yer arms... or we’ll rip _his_ off!’ One of the trolls said. Bilbo looked down at the Dwarves with wide, terrified eyes.

‘ _ **Awww, fuck!**_ ’ Sabra groaned. She observed the Dwarves around her, and for a few seconds it seemed like they were going to fight on, but then Thorin growled in frustration and forced the tip of his sword into the sand; the others soon following his example, throwing their weapons to the ground.

With a sigh, Sabra dropped her dagger. _Well, this sucks._

‘Bill, go find us some more wood.’ One of the trolls bellowed.

‘Aw, why’s it always gotta be _me_? Let _Tom_ go fer a change.’ Bill whined.

‘Tom’s gotta help me bag ‘em. So they won’ run off.’ The leader said. ‘Now go ge’ us more wood, them Dwarves needta be _grilled_ over a big fire.’

Grumbling, Bill disappeared between the trees.

While the leader kept a hold of Bilbo -putting more strain on his limbs whenever it looked like one of the Dwarves was going to fight his ‘sacking’, until said Dwarf surrendered-, Tom started to put the Dwarves into individual burlap sacks. Which were itchy and stunk to the high heavens.

Sabra didn’t really want to know what had been in them before they came to be their prisons. She was one of the first to be bagged and she was no more than superficially searched for more weapons. Which came in handy, because the holsters that held her karambit knives were hidden under her coat. The knives were so small, compared to the trolls, that they probably wouldn’t even have recognised them as weapons, had they discovered them. Always underestimated, just as she was. The troll who had bagged her had sniffed at her and remarked that there was a flimsy female amongst the Dwarves. The leader had laughed scornfully at that, and had told Tom to bag her, too. Which he then did. Without checking the flimsy female for any hidden weapons. _Stupid, arrogant beasts._

After being bagged, she’d been thrown aside, barely missing a large boulder with her head. _Oomph..._

A Dwarf landed on top of her and she groaned when he almost crushed her, ‘ _Ow. Fuck, you guys are heavy_.’ Her complaint earning her a mouth full of long hair. _Don’t open your mouth, stupid._ She spluttered and spit to dislodge the hair from her tongue. The Dwarf who had landed on top of her started to wiggle to the side.

‘I am sorry.’ Came Thorin’s voice form near her ear as he tried to roll off of her, being thwarted by another Dwarf who was tossed against them.

When the King tried to move again, Sabra stopped him with a hissed ‘ _No! Wait._ ’

‘ _What is it?_ ’ He whispered back as he froze.

‘ _Stay where you are. Keep me out of their sight._ ’ She reached inside her coat and wriggled one of her knives free from its leather holster. It was quite a tight squeeze, because the sack she’d been packed into was very narrow. Thorin lifted his head and flicked his hair to the side with a short movement of his neck, so it was shielding their faces from where the trolls stood. The King was studying her intently.

‘ _What are you doing?_ ’ He rumbled quietly.

‘ _Escaping_.’

‘ _What? How?_ ’ He looked down when he heard a soft tearing sound, just in time to see how the sharp point of one of her knives pierced through the thick cloth that held them prisoner. Thorin’s eyes lit up when they found hers again and he threw her a conspiring, appreciative smile. ‘ _Clever woman._ ’

Sending him a grin, Sabra quickly cut open the sack just enough for her to worm her hands and arms out. Then she loosened the rope that held the sack closed around her neck. She let the opened sack fall back to the ground underneath her shoulders. Now to wriggle out of it without any of the trolls noticing.

Thankfully, Bill chose that moment to return with the wood he’d gathered. He was still whining about it and distracted the other trolls from watching the Dwarves too closely.

Without making a sound, Sabra wormed herself out of the sack, while Thorin rolled to his side and tried to shield her movements from the trolls as much as he could. The knife that she had been holding suddenly fell out of her hand and onto the ground with a high * _clink_ *. Both she and Thorin froze; listening for any tells that they had been found out. Sabra was grateful for Bill’s loudly whining voice, for it had covered up the sound of the falling knife. She let out a relieved breath when the trolls’ bickering continued undisturbed, and next to her, Thorin relaxed a modicum.

Pushing the last of the sack away with her feet, she turned to the King, starting to pull loose the rope around his neck. He pulled his head away from her hands.

‘ _No_.’ He whispered.

Sabra frowned at his refusal.

‘ _What? Why not?_ ’

‘ _It will be too noticeable if more than one of us disappears. It will endanger us all even more._ ’ He looked at her sternly. ‘ _Find Gandalf. He can help._ ’

‘ _How the **fuck** am I supposed to find **Gandalf**?! He could be anywhere._ ’ She hissed at the King, looking at him as if he had lost his mind. ‘ _It could be too late for all of you, by the time I find him._ ’

A suppressed growl tore from his throat and his eyes flashed dangerously.

‘ _Mahal, save me from obstinate women_.’ He breathed in deeply through is nose, visibly trying to calm himself down. ‘ _ **Sabra** , this is **no** time to argue. **Go!** Find the wizard._ ’ He sounded like he was at the end of his patience.

‘ _Urgh. **Fine**._ ’ Rolling her eyes in annoyance, she grabbed the rope of his burlap sack and pulled him to her roughly, so that they were almost touching noses. ‘ _But if this all goes sideways, and we all die, I’m gonna hunt you down and kill you dead._ ’

Thorin inclined his head, the corners of his mouth tilting upwards.

‘ _Agreed_.’

‘ _Great_.’ Sabra said, and pulled him even closer, whispering, ‘ _I don’t regret a thing._ ’ Then she pressed her lips softly against his, eliciting a surprised exhale from him before he pulled his head back, shock written all over his face. _Oops... Maybe not the time to..._ His eyes darkened when she bit her lower lip and apologetically grimaced at him. He leaned forward suddenly, pressing his lips to hers firmly and taking charge of the kiss. _Oh... Holy sh..._ There was a firm kick to her ankle and she startled, causing Thorin to stop his gentle nibbling on her lower lip and look up. She turned her head and looked straight into the unamused eyes of Balin. He made a motion with his head that indicated for her to get a move on. She frowned. _Oh... Right. Get Help..._

She mouthed a ‘sorry’ at Balin, who shook his head at her. He was right of course, they were in a right dangerous situation. No time for kissing the boss. Giving Thorin one last grin, she turned onto her tummy and directed her attention to Balin, who was observing the trolls. When he nodded at her to go, she slid over the ground like an eal; belly crawling until she could pull herself under some bushes and then behind a tree. Sitting up straight with her back against the tree, she glanced around it to see if she’d been noticed. Apparently she hadn’t, as the trolls were all too busy relieving some of the Dwarves from their burlap sacks and binding them to a large... _is that a roasting-jack?! Fuuuuck. I gotta move!_

Making sure to make as little noise as possible, she circled the troll camp until she was back on track to the company’s own camp. She was going to get help alright. Just _not_ from a wizard. Thorin would be furious with her later, but for now, she didn’t care. She had a rifle to fetch, and a tree to climb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wait... Did that just happen? O.o 
> 
> Aaaaaaannnndd...
> 
> Should I name the rifle? 
> 
> Any suggestions? 
> 
> Feed(back) the muse, please.
> 
> Cheers! :D


	23. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Escaping from the trolls. And a heart to heart with Gandalf... Sort of...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing but my OFC and the storyline you don’t recognise.
> 
> I make no money from this story.
> 
> This is my M.E.S. :)

Chapter 21

 

It had taken her almost an hour to find an acceptable vantage point that gave her an uninterrupted view of the trolls’ camp. She’d scouted out the environment as well and as fast as she could, and had concluded that the trees around the camp were too far apart and too sparsely foliaged for her to have a safe base to work from. After three trips around the camp and one further back in the woods, she’d decided that a large boulder, which lay slightly back between the trees, was her best option.

It was about eighteen feet high, so she’d be above the trolls’ line of sight, and it was rounded enough at the back that it kept her body hidden from curious eyes. It wasn’t ideal, because she would be within grabbing distance of the trolls if they spotted her, but it would have to do. She’d just have to shoot in faster succession than she was used to, and take them all out before she was discovered. At least she was close enough that there was almost no chance that she’d miss any of the shots.

Carefully, she climbed up the back of the boulder, her rifle on her back. When she was almost at the top, she set up the weapon and, bit by bit, she slowly pushed it into position as she pulled herself up to where she could comfortably look through the scope; keeping her body as flat against the rock as humanly possible.

Alternately peering through the scope and then visually confirming where her targets were located and which way they were moving, Sabra braced the rifle against her shoulder. _‘Alright, Baby, Time to make mama proud.’_ She breathed, gently placing her finger on the trigger.

She was about to fire her first shot when, suddenly, Bilbo started to talk to the trolls, causing them to turn away from the positions they’d been in and the leader to step away from the crosshairs of her scope. She soflty hissed out the breath she was holding and pulled her finger away from the trigger, flexing her hand to relax the sudden tension in her muscles. ‘ _Fuck_.’ She grumbled under her breath. ‘ _What the fuck are you doing, Bilbo?_ ’

Lifting her head, and daring a glance over the boulder and down onto the scene that played out beneath her, she saw how the leader’s attention was completely on the Hobbit. He was slightly bent over, which gave her a perfect view of the back of his head. _Great_.

She ducked back behind her scope, and aimed its crosshairs at the leader’s head. Breathing in and then very slowly breathing out, she once again fingered the trigger lightly before squeezing it back only a fraction.

The shot echoed through the mountains as the bullet tore into the troll’s scull, making the head explode at the front, raining bone, and brain, and blood all over poor Bilbo. Who screamed in horror as he watched the troll collapse in front of him. ‘ _Oops... Sorry._ ’ Sabra whispered.

There was no time to linger, and she had the second troll in her crosshairs before either of the remaining ones had the chance to recover from their shock.

_Reload, cock, squeeze._

Troll Bill still had his mouth open in a squeal that sounded like ‘ _Bert!_ ’, when his head exploded sideways; his body falling into the same direction as the brainsplatter as the second shot echoed through the night. _Yeah, Baby delivers a kick, doesn’t she?_ Sabra’s mind gleefully remarked.

 _Reload, cock, wait... Where is that third ugly motherfucker?!_ She was frantically searching for the third troll through her scope, when suddenly Thorin’s face filled her vision. _What?!_

She quickly looked up and saw how troll Tom had picked up the King and held him in front of his face. _Shit. And he’s even got the right direction. Not as dim as the other two, this one._ Grunting in frustration, Sabra went back to peering through her scope, seeing if she could find a way to take out the troll, without killing Thorin. And, in extension, herself.

‘ _Come on, come on, come onnnn._ ’ Her whispers became frantic.

‘Come out, an’ hand in yer weapon!’ Tom yelled in her general direction.

Huh, so, he hadn’t discovered her precise location yet. That was a positive.

Her focus zoomed in on where she could just make out an eye, between the strands of Thorin’s hair, to the right of his face.

‘ _Please. Thorin, don’t move your head. Pleasepleaseplease._ ’ She breathed. Then she pulled the trigger, and the troll fell backwards, taking Thorin with him. It went too fast for her to see if Thorin was unhurt, and she was on her feet and scrambling down the front of the boulder before anyone else had had the time to react. Jumping down the last seven feet or so to the ground and rolling forwards the exact moment she landed on her feet, she kept her momentum, and was at where the King lay on his back, on top of the troll, in seconds.

‘ _Please, be alright._ ’ She whispered as she took the burlap sack in her hands and hauled the Dwarf off of the troll’s body. Because of his weight, Sabra couldn’t really steer where the King fell, and could only break his fall with her body, which resulted in Thorin landing on top of her, and knocking the wind out of her.

‘ _Oomph._ ’ She gasped for air and pushed the Dwarf King off to the side, rolling with him. Lifting the hair out of his face, she checked his head for any indication of a bullet-wound, but, apart from a few blood splatters on his cheek, that she was sure weren’t his, he looked unharmed. While she touched his face, to make sure that he was alright, he slowly opened his eyes with a groan; his bright blue orbs immediately focussing on her grey ones.

‘ _Hey_.’ She whispered with a small smile, as she carded her fingers through his hair.

He didn’t answer, and scowled at her.

‘You didn’t _listen_.’ He sounded unamused.

‘Nope.’ Her answer was short and clear. ‘Your plan was _stupid_. It posed too much risk for you and the rest of the company.’

‘You _swore **loyalty** _ to me.’ He growled.

‘I did.’ She nodded.

‘You _have_ to listen to me when I tell you to do something.’ Thorin frowned a very impressive frown. Too bad it didn’t work on her. _Heh_.

‘ _No_ , I do _not._ Loyalty is _not_ the same thing as blind obedience. I am loyal to you, and to your House. I will _always_ choose the course of action that will keep you, and yours, safest. It also means that if I find that your orders go against that directive, I will choose to _ignore_ said orders and do everything in my power to keep you, and everyone else, _alive_.’ Sabra started to work on the knots that held the sack closed at his neck, and within seconds she’d freed the King. ‘That’s the way it works for me, your Majesty. I do not swear fealty to anyone, _not_ even to _you_. So, take it, or leave it.’ She knew that it was a risk to give him an ultimatum like this, but the sooner he understood that she worked outside the confines of what he was used to, the better.

As he stood, and wormed his way out of the burlap sack, he scowled down at her.

‘We _will_ speak about this, later.’ Then he stalked off to the rest of the Dwarves, who received him with cheers and hurrahs.

Sabra followed him at a more leasurely pace, and helped Bilbo out of his sack. The poor Hobbit was still covered in gore and looked slightly shellshocked as he stared at her with large eyes.

‘You... you _shot_ at him, with that weapon.’

‘I did.’

‘And he just... _exploded_.’

‘Yes. Just like I showed you, on the tree, weeks ago, remember?’

The Hobbit nodded, letting out a shuddering sigh.

‘I... I was the one who fiddled with your weapon, back then. I was curious...’ His voice was small. ‘I am _so_ sorry. I could have hurt someone... I could have _killed_ someone.’ He sounded horrified, as if her warning from weeks ago had only now taken root.

Sighing, she looked him in the eye.

‘Yes, you could have. But you didn’t. You were lucky.’ She was not one for sugarcoating. ‘Just remember to _never_ touch it again, alright?’

Bilbo nodded vigorously.

‘Yes. _Never again._ ’

‘ _Good_.’ She left him standing there, and helped Ori out of the stinky burlap. He thanked her quietly and helped his brother, Nori out of his precarious position.

By the time that all Dwarves had been freed, and all weapons were reunited with their owners, the sky started to lighten in the East, just above the boulder she’d been on.

A loud crackling was suddenly heard in the bushes, and before anyone could react, Gandalf burst through into the clearing, his expression worried.

Thorin stalked towards him in the early morning light, his body language clearly showing his anger.

‘Where did _you_ go to, if I may ask?’

Gandalf frowned at the King’s bold question. _He must not be used to his actions being under scrutiny._ Sabra thought.

‘To look ahead.’ The old man said.

‘What brought you back?’

‘Looking _behind_.’ The wizard gave him a knowing look after glancing at the trolls. The _dead_ trolls. With the exploded heads. _Yup, that was me. I did that. No help needed from you, old man._ Sabra grinned at Gandalf’s raised eyebrow when he gazed upon her.

Thorin inclined his head at Gandalf’s answer.

‘Nasty business, _trolls_.’ Gandalf murmured. ‘Still, the members of the company are in one piece.’

‘ _No_ thanks to your _burglar_... Or _yourself_...’ Thorin answered, his voice dark. ‘If it weren’t for Mistress Ashford, we’d have been troll food.’

‘Don’t be so dramatic. I’d have been on time to save you. By the looks of it, nothing serious had happened to any of you yet.’ The wizard said.

 _Well, that’s a pretty arrogant thing to say..._ Sabra frowned and huffed, and made her way back to the boulder, to pick up her Baby.

Thorin grunted and said something under his breath that she couldn’t hear.

Gandalf turned to study the trolls.

‘They must have come down from the Ettenmoors.’

‘Since _when_ do Mountain Trolls venture this far south?’ Thorin asked, as he looked at the carnage Sabra had caused.

Sabra was up the boulder in seconds, grabbed her weapon and then descended again; half skipping, half sliding down and jumping the last few feet, rifle in hand, landing lightly on her feet.

Both Gandalf and Thorin looked at her antics with raised eyebrows. She grinned at them and shouldered her rifle.

‘ _Years_ of gymnastics, dudes. Does wonders for your flexibility and balance.’

Gandalf hummed noncommittedly and glanced from her rifle, back to the trolls.

Thorin turned back to Gandalf, from where he had been glaring at Sabra, when the wizard continued speaking.

‘They haven’t been down as far as they have come, now, for an _age_.’ He frowned worriedly at the bodies. ‘ _Not_ since a darker power ruled these lands.’ Gandalf and Thorin shared a loaded glance. ‘They could not have moved in _daylight_.’ The wizard said.

Thorin glanced around the trolls’ campsite, taking it in in more detail.

‘There must be a cave nearby.’ He stalked off towards a cliff face that rose up from the forest, behind the clearing.

Sabra watched him go and sighed. He was really, really angry with her.

‘Did... Something _happen_ while I was gone?... Apart from the trolls, that is...’ Gandalf asked from behind her.

‘He gave me an order. And I chose to ignore it... And saved _**all**_ of their arses because of it... And I might have said that his plan was stupid... And now he’s pissed... Also because I told him that loyalty didn’t mean blind obedience. And if he was looking for that, to find someone else to subjugate to serfdom.’ She threw out. _Wow... way to go, verbal diarrhea..._

Gandalf chuckled as he came to stand next to her, leaning on his staff; observing how Thorin ordered his Dwarves and Bilbo to follow him to the cliff, to find a cave that the trolls might have used.

‘He is _not_ like the _others_ , Sabra. He has been brought up to be a _King_ ; used to giving orders, and used to people following them. A whole society depended on him to lead them to safety, after the Dragon attacked. People counted on him to make sure their needs were met. He has built a Dwarf realm in the Blue Mountains for them, from nothing, and they thrived, thanks to him. And though he looks like he is in his forties -according to human standards-, he is almost two hundred years old. It is hard to change beliefs that have been ingrained into you for such a long time. Then you, a woman no less, come along and you attempt to overthrow what he has learnt to be an unchangeable truth. That his orders are to be followed to the letter, _without_ question. His power in Ered Luin is unchallenged, and his leadership over this company is absolute. They will _not_ go against him. Ever. Not even his nephews. To have someone challenge him and disregard his commands as easily as you have done...’ He chuckled again. ‘Well, Lets just say, that it will be a steep learning curve. For both of you.’

Sabra couldn’t escape the feeling that the wizard was looking forward to observing that learning curve, just a little bit too much. He was too jovial about the whole thing. She frowned at him, humming in displeasure.

‘I think it’s _high time_ to see what those Dwarves are up to.’ She said, and started walking into the direction where the company had disappeared between the trees, dismissing the wizard and his speech completely. ‘ _What the fuck does he know._ ’ She grumbled under her breath.

Behind her, Gandalf burst out laughing at her inability to respond to his explanation.

 _Fucker_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Troll-hoard ahead!... I repeat... Troll-hoard ahead!
> 
> Leave us a note will ya? The muse loves to eat em. Also, kudos... She likes kudos.
> 
> Cheers! :)


	24. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Troll-Hoard!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own the stuff that you don’t recognise, and my OFC.
> 
> I make no money with this story.
> 
> This is the Middle Earthy Sandbox of Meddling Wizards. ;)

Chapter 22

 

There were shouts of triumph when the cave was found and everyone rushed to where the sound was coming from. Said shouts turned into gagging, and retching, and sounds of revulsion when they descended into what could only be called a cesspit of filth.

‘Ew, _what’s_ that stench?’ One of the Dwarves asked.

‘It’s a _troll-hoard_.’ Said Gandalf, who led the procession of Dwarves into the cave. It sounded like he thoutht that was explanation enough. It probably was, the trolls _had_ stunk to the high heavens. ‘Be careful what you _touch_!’ He warned.

 _Yeah, wouldn’t want to contract any nasty deseases._ Sabra shuddered and covered her nose and mouth with her hand, trying to ease the stress on her olfactory senses a bit.

‘Dear _gawd_ , and here _I_ was, thinking that _you guys_ stank when I first got here.’ She groaned. ‘I stand _corrected_.’ There were amused chuckles coming from all around her at that statement. Then there was more gagging and retching.

‘I’m goin’ ta need a bath, later.’ Bofur complained from next to her. ‘The smell gets into yer skin.’

Sabra hummed in agreement as she looked around the dark cave.

Thorin came stomping by without a glance her way, a lit torch in hand. He set it down to the side before picking up two swords, covered in dirt, and dust, and spiderwebs, while behind her, Nori, Bofur, and Gloin were starting to dig a hole to bury a chest filled with gold.

A few of the other Dwarves were picking around the ‘ _treasure_ ’, but didn’t really take anything but a few gold coins. The rest of them had taken a quick look around the cave and had quickly fled into the fresh air outside.

‘ _Urgh_ , even the _gold_ stinks of troll.’ Dori stated as he brought a coin to his nose and sniffed it. He pulled a disgusted face and threw the coin back onto its pile. ‘’S not worth the trouble of taking it.’

She chuckled at his disappointment. _Dwarves and their love of precious metals..._

‘These swords were not made by any _Troll_.’ Thorin said, causing her to turn back to where he was admiring the weapons he had picked up.

Gandalf approached him and took the sword that Thorin offered him.

‘Nor were they made by any _smith_ among _men_...’ He pulled the sword partly out of its scabbard, studying the engravings. ‘These were forged in _Gondolin_... By the High Elves, of the First Age.’

_Right..._

Sabra lost interest when Thorin almost dropped the sword in disgust at hearing that tidbit of information. _Wow. Racist much? Ew, Elves. I touched it. Ewewewewwwww..._ She shook her head in irritation and blocked out the rest of the conversation; her attention suddenly caugt by a metallic glint further back in the cave. _What was that?_ As the flame of the torch flickered, its light ebbing and flowing in the darkness, she saw it again. Her curiosity got the better of her, and she carefully made her way further into the cave. Everything that she could make out in the dim light -the torchlight was very weak this far back-, looked older and more dilapidated that the stuff that had been dumped at the front of the cave. It felt like going back in time with every other step she took; a very strange sensation.

She stumbled a few times, not being able to see the ground anymore as she moved further away from the torch, but eventually she made it to where she’d seen the glint of metal. It was almost as if she was pulled towards it by an invisible force. A shiver of foreboding went down her spine, but she suppressed it, and cursed her own superstitious bullshit mind. It was just the gloomy atmosphere of the cave that had her spooked. That was all.

By touch, she searched the lower wall of the cave for any strange deviations. There, on a slight elevation, halfway behind what felt like a rotted piece of wood and centuries worth of spiderweb, she found the smooth surface of leather. Which disintegrated almost completely under her touch; the ancient animal skin so porous that it was no longer able to withstand any strain upon it.

Her fingers then came into contact with the cool smoothness of metal. She felt a light, prickling zing at her fingertips for a fraction of a second. But before she could think anything of it, it was gone. Dismissing it, she bent over slightly to see it better. Narrowing her eyes, she could only just make out a long, partially curved blade underneath the ruined scabbard. She followed the curve with her touch, until she came to the handle. Gripping it, and lifting the sword -it was a sword, there was no doubt in her mind- from its resting place, she brought it closer to her face to see it more easily.

The action tore the sword from most of the remnants of its scabbard. A few rope-like pieces, which were apparently also attached to something else, hanging on to the pommel. When the sword couldn’t be lifted any higher, because it seemed to be caught behind something, she gave it a yank, and that caused her to pull another artifact from the elevated alcove in the rock. A loud, metallic clattering sound was heard along with the tearing of rotten wood, echoing all through the cave, startling the Dwarves. There were exclamations of shocked surprise.

 _Oops_.

‘ _ **Sorry**_. Sorry, that was me.’ Sabra called out toward the front of the cave.

‘Everythin’ alright, little sister?’ Bofur shouted back at her.

‘Yes, I’m okay. Everything’s... fine...’ She answered distractedly as she bent over to see what she had caused to fall to the cave floor. _Oh... Wow... Is that... another sword?_

She picked it up and held it up to her face to study it. It looked like it was the twin of the one she’d picked up first. The two swords must have been in connected scabbards for her to pull it out of its hiding place as easily as she had. _Cool. Twin Blades._ Slashing them in tandem through the air to get a feel for them, she heard the steel sing. They were awfully well balanced, and though they were slighty oversized for her stature, the swinging of them gave her no trouble; their surprisingly light weight assisting in her relative ease of handling the blades.

Carefully, she made her way back to the entrance of the cave; just in time to hear Thorin give orders to Bofur, Gloin and Nori, to get their arses out of the cave. Then he turned to her.

‘Where did _you_ suddenly disappear to?’ He rumbled, narrowing his eyes.

‘I thought I saw something at the back of the cave and went to check it out.’ Sabra explained, keeping her voice neutral. Holding up the twin blades, she smiled. ‘ _Look_  what I found. Aren’t they _**fabulous**_?’ She studied the blades a little better now that she had more light. They were wonderfully crafted, from a blue-ish silver metal, the blades, without the handles, almost as long as her arms, and embellished with organic lines, which flowed along the blades almost like vines. The handles were metal as well, their leather grips having disintegrated years before. It would be a good idea to have them redone some time in the near future. Thorin’s voice pulled her from her musings.

‘ _Fa... bu-lous?_ ’ The King let the strange word roll from his lips. Then he seemed to mentally shake himself and he frowned at her. ‘Do you even _know_ how to fight with twin swords?’

‘ _No_... But I’m going to learn. Thought I might ask Fili to show me. It would be a pity if I had them and then had no idea how to use them, wouldn’t it?’ She grinned. ‘I know how to fight with two small knives. These are just a bit bigger. Which would make my reach quite a bit further, so that’s a positive. And the ground rules would be the same. Don’t cut yourself, and, the pointy end goes into the other guy. Right?’ She winked and strolled past him, out of the cave and into the blissfully fresh air that was all the sweeter after being inside the horridly smelling cave for such a long stretch of time.

Thorin, Dwalin, Gloin, Nori, and Bofur passed her by as she sat herself down on a rock a few yards from the cave; admiring the decorative craftsmanship of her new swords.

To her left, she saw how Gandalf exited the cave, holding a small dagger-like sword. He handed it to Bilbo and exchanged a few words with the Hobbit. Bilbo gave the wizard a sceptical look as he accepted the dagger.

Gandalf ignored the Hobbit’s objections to the dagger and focussed his attention on her. Or, on her blades, to be more precise. The wizard frowned and stalked towards her, his gaze never leaving the swords.

‘ _Where_ did you find these?’

‘Um... In the back of the cave, behind a piece of rotten wood. They were hidden in a natural alcove, of sorts.’ She handed one of the swords to him so he could study it better. ‘Are they Gondo... Gondo-something, too?’

‘From Gondolin?... No.’ He murmured, closely studying the embellishments. ‘These are _older_... _Much_ older. They are of a different age. They were forged in... _Valinor_.’ He looked flabbergasted. ‘I thought all those blades had gone. Been destroyed.’ His gaze traveled from the blade, to her; his eyes narrowing suspiciously. ‘ _How_ did you know to look there, all the way back inside the cave?’

‘Well, I saw the light of the torch glinting off of something metal and decided to check it out.’ Sabra explained, shrugging. ‘Then I found them.’ She held up the blade in her hand.

‘That’s not possible. The light of the torch didn’t reach that far back.’ He said, his frown returning.

‘Well, it _must_ have, because that’s what I saw.’ She answered stubbornly, returning the wizard’s scowl. There was no way that she was going to accept his inclination to blame everything on strange forces that were supposedly at play. _Nope. Not going there._ She believed in what she could see, and touch. Also, she wasn’t thinking about what had happened between her and Thorin when he spoke in that strange language of his. _Stupid new age mumbo jumbo can just go fuck itself._

Suddenly, she heard Thorin shout out a warning.

‘ _ **Something’s coming!**_ ’

Gandalf pushed the sword he was still holding back into her hand and jumped up from where he had been crouching in front of her. He whirled around to see where Thorin was standing.

‘Stay _together_!’ The wizard called out. ‘Hurry now! _Arm_ yourselves.’

Everyone around her pulled their swords. She quickly stood, twin blades in hand, and followed the Dwarves into the woods.

Loud cracking and crunching sounds came from their right, and the Dwarves gathered together as one, pointing their weapons towards the sound. A hand shot out from the group, and Sabra was pulled into the middle of it by her arm, a surprised squeak leaving her mouth. She was pushed behind a broad male with long dark hair. Thorin.

‘What are you doing?’ She asked, annoyed.

‘Stay close.’ He ordered.

_What the actual fuck? First he’s acting like a dick, and now he is... what? Trying to protect me?_

‘You’re giving me a _whiplash_ with those moodswings of yours. Make up your _fucking_ mind, _will ya?_ ’ She growled, and stepped away from him, to the edge of the group, raising her swords into the direction of the crashing that became louder and louder.

Then there burst a herd of huge -and she really meant, **_huge_** \- rabbits from the bushes, followed by a wooden sleigh, that was built from whimsically formed branches.

 _Sure... Giant rabbits pulling a sleigh. Why not_. Her mind sarcasmed. Now she’d seen it all.

‘ _ **Thieves! Fire! Murder!**_ ’ Shouted the strange looking man who steered the sleigh. The rabbits came to a stop in front of the group of Dwarves; effectively slowing down the sleigh as they went.

‘Radagast!’ Came Gandalf’s relieved voice. ‘It’s Radagast the Brown.’ He said to their group. As if _that_ should explain _everything_. ‘What on _earth_ are you doing here?’ This he directed to Radagast.

‘I was looking for you, Gandalf. Something is _wrong_. Something’s _terribly **wrong**_.’ The weird man sounded very worried. Sabra looked from Gandalf to Radagast, and back. Was he some sort of wizard? Like Gandalf? They had the same aura of otherworldliness, she had to give them that.

‘Hmm, yes?’ Gandalf said, trying to encourage the stammering man to deliver his message.

Radagast opened his mouth to say something, but seemed to lose the thought as everyone looked on.

‘Just give me a minute... ummm...’ He couldn’t remember what he was in such a hurry to say. _Great..._

‘I had a thought... And now I’ve lost it... It was right _there_ , on the tip of my tongue...’

He then proceeded to mumble and spit out a stick insect. 

_What. The. Hell..._

Sabra rolled her eyes at the man’s antics, and turned toward Bofur.

‘You want to go back to camp? Pick up our packs? Something’s telling me that we’ll be wasting valuable time if we wait for him to remember what he came here for.’ Bofur hummed and nodded in answer, silently gesturing for her to lead the way, and following her back toward their campsite.

Apparently, that was also the sign for the other Dwarves to start making their way back to camp, because when Sabra was tying closed her backpack, twin blades safely secured in the opening between the shoulder straps -making them easily accessible in case of emergencies-, she noticed that many of the others were also picking up their stuff and putting it back into their packs.

Bofur strolled up to her, pack on his back.

‘Hello, lass. Are ye ready ta go and see where Gandalf an’ his strange friend are? They haven’t returned to camp yet.’

Sabra stood, shrugged on her backpack, and shouldered her rifle.

‘ _Sure_ , why not. Let’s go see if the weirdo remembered what he was trying to say.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooooooh, I love me some shiny swords! :D
> 
> Until next time! 
> 
> Cheers!


	25. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations are held.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own my OFC and everything you don’t recognise.
> 
> No money was made from writing this story.
> 
> This is my Sandbox. :)

Chapter 23

 

Thorin joined them while they made their way back to where they’d seen Radagast and Gandalf last. He never spoke to her, but Sabra could almost feel his eyes burning a hole in the back of her head as he walked behind her.

They found the two wizards a couple of hundred yards away from where they had been before, but it wasn’t hard to find them, because their discussion on who grew the best pipe-weed, was quite loud.

Sabra came to the conclusion that they had either talked about the things that Radagast was worried about, and they’d moved on to other topics, or the scatterbrained wizard hadn’t remembered yet, and Gandalf was trying to jog his memory by engaging him in a heated conversation.

Either way, she, and the rest of the company, had a lot more waiting to do, until the two old men were done with their convo.

Sighing, she walked away from the area, not in a mood to listen in on a debate about whose weed was better than any of the others. Climbing up a steep hill and over a couple of mossed over boulders, she finally settled on a flat stone that overlooked the part of the forest where the others were now congregating. It looked like everyone had found their way back into the woods. Some of them staying closer to Gandalf, like Bilbo, and others spreading out through the woods, finding their own rock to relax upon. It wasn’t long before some of them were asleep, exhausted from staying awake through the long, scary night.

She saw how Dwalin stood watch, leaning on his axe, while Balin and Ori slept at his feet. Bombur was snoring loudly, and Bofur, who was leaning back against a rock beside him, gave him a shove to shut him up before he closed his eyes as well.

Determined to stay awake and keep an eye out for trouble, she stretched and stood up from her boulder, making a visual sweep of their makeshift camp. That’s when she noticed how Thorin was climbing up the mountain, heading straight for her. _Oh... Shit... Guess that that ‘we will speak later’ is going to be now..._ Grumbling under her breath about stubborn Dwarves, she sat back down, sulking. Fuck, she was too tired for this. Too bad that he’d already seen her stand up, otherwise she might have been able to pretend that she was asleep... _On the other hand... Sleepwalking is a thing... right?_

Patiently, she waited for him to come to her, not giving an inch in that she wasn’t walking down the slope and meet him halfway. If he wanted to talk to her, he’d have to work for it. Or, walk for it... _Heh_. She snickered at her own -silly- pun.

Leaning her elbows on her knees, and her chin on her hands, folding her fingers around her face, she observed how he approached her with a determined gait; not even looking winded by his steady climb. Of course, he’d lived in the mountains all his life, she remembered. He was used to climbing and descending steep inclines.

He looked sexy as hell, doing it, too. _How does he even manage that?! Arse..._

Then he was next to her.

‘I need to speak with you.’ He said, and offered her his hand. She took it and stood, following him behind a copse of trees and some undergrowth, shielding them from curious eyes.

‘Well, what is it?’ She asked, hoping to get it all over with as soon as possible. The best defense was an offense, right?

‘You are too _stubborn_ for your own good!’ He growled in a hushed volume. ‘When I give you an order, I _expect_ you to _**follow**_ it!’

Rolling her eyes, she scoffed.

‘And I already _**told**_ you, if those orders mean that they endanger you even more, then I will ignore them and devise my own strategies. This discussion is _useless_. We are going in circles, Thorin.’

He advanced on her, but she stood her ground, prepared to let the situation escalate if it would come to that.

‘What if those orders were given to keep _you_ safe?!’ He hissed.

_Wait... What?!_

She stared at him with wide eyes, disbelief in the expression on her face.

‘ _What?_ ’ She whispered, completely taken by surprise. ‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying, that I wanted you to go and find Gandalf, so that you were out of harm’s way. But no, _of course_ you couldn’t just listen, you obstinate woman. You had to go and ignore my directive, throw yourself _right_ back into the thick of things. As you _always_ do. You have _**no**_ sense of selfpreservation!’ He was now bodily crowding her and she took a tiny step back.

It didn’t stop her from throwing an answer right back at him, though.

‘Yes, I _did_ come back, and I saved _**ALL**_ of your arses because of it! I’d do it again in a _heartbeat!_ ’ She put a hand against his chest and pushed at him. Of course he didn’t move an inch. He was getting too close and in spite of only having an inch or two -alright, maybe three- on her, his body-language made it seem like he was so much bigger, broader, and stronger than her, that her adrenaline spiked.

‘You. Are. _**Infuriating**_.’ His tone was menacing as he gained another step on her. She felt her backpack bump into something solid, and the feeling of being boxed in increased by a thousandfold. An immovable object at her back, and an aggressive male at her front made her fight or flight response kick in. Her breathing increased and massive amounts of adrenaline were now pumping through her veins.

When he raised his hand to put it on her shoulder as he began to say something, she reacted instinctively and ducked away to the side, grabbing his arm in the same movement as she twirled around him; effectively pinning it to his back, and eliciting a suprised sound from him.

‘That is only because you can’t seem to get it into your _**thick**_ _fucking skull_ that I am _not_ some meek little female who is easily intimidated and who will cater to your every demand. Now, I will say this _one. last. time._ ’ She hissed. ‘I am going to make sure that you, and I, make it to that Lonely Mountain of yours in one piece. No matter _what_ I have to do to make it so and no matter _which_ of your commands I have to _ignore_. There is **_no_** compromise to be made there. _Do. You. **Understand?**_ ’ She subconsciously increased the pressure on his arm as she spoke.

To her surprise, he somehow performed a lightning-fast manoeuvre, which had him breaking out of her hold with ease. Within a fraction of a second he was facing her again, his long hair falling forward as he silently gazed down at her with a carefully controlled fury blazing in his now steel-blue eyes. His nostrils flared as he breathed in heavily. The ice cold expression on his face was somehow both intimidating and magnificent. It almost took her breath away. Still, she didn’t fold and withstood his gaze, her own eyes boring into his, showing him her unwillingness to bend to his will and thus subconsciously displaying her iron backbone to the King. She wasn’t going to give an inch on this.

After a loaded silence that felt like it lasted an hour, in which neither of them seemed willing to submit, Thorin suddenly minutely inclined his head.

‘Understood.’ He said, his voice deep and solemn.

Sabra’s eyes widened in bewilderment.

 _What? Did he just... concede?!_ Did she hear that right? _Did I just... convince him?... Or something..._

While she was still reeling from the completely unexpected win he’d granted her, Thorin gently laid a hand on her cheek, sliding it up to her ear over her jaw, his thumb caressing her cheekbone. Her eyes searched his for an explanation on his sudden surrender, but all she saw was how the steel-blue changed to a more sky-blue, his gaze softening a fraction. He lowered his head until his nose touched hers, and tilted it slightly.

‘ _You are a witch._ ’ He whispered, his lips a hairsbreath from hers, managing to sound appreciative and admiring instead of insulting. His mouth only caressed hers in the lightest of touches, while he waited patiently for her to respond. To accept or refuse what he offered her.

Had he tried to _force_ a kiss on her, a few minutes ago, in the heat of the moment, while her adrenaline was running high and fast through her veins, instead of how he went about waiting for her consent as he was now, she’d have probably kicked him down the mountain, and felt justified while doing it.

The situation being as it was at that moment, though, made her bridge the last millimeter between them as she softly pressed her lips to his, his beard tickling the sensitive skin around her mouth. The hair was softer, and less prickly than she’d expected it to be from her previous experiences with bearded males.

Losing herself in the sensation of the kiss, she responded with enthusiasm when Thorin deepened it; increasing the pressure on her lips, and slightly opening his mouth; sucking her bottom lip into his mouth, and caressing it with his tongue. It caused a shiver of excitement to travel down her spine.

With a moan, she met his tongue with hers and wound her arms around his neck, pressing her body against his. She felt how his other hand slid between her backpack and her back, his arm circling her waist as his fingers pressed against her spine, starting a slow stroking up and down her back. With a few steps, he manoeuvred her backwards and had her bodily pressed up against a tree within seconds, backpack and all. His muscled leg had pushed up between hers and she could feel the pressure of him against her lower abdomen as he kissed her passionately.

And just like that, the pleasurable warm glow that had settled low in her belly, exploded into a full blown panic. She let out a cry of distress and tore her lips away from his. She was trapped. She couldn’t get away. She couldn’t _breathe_... Her brain was firing off memories of _that_ night, at a rapid pace. Gasping for air, she protested as she desperately tried to stay connected to reality.

‘No, _please, **Stop.**_ ’ Her voice sounded so panicked and forlorn as she pushed against him, that Thorin pulled back immediately, his hands taking hold of her shoulders to keep her from stumbling after his hasty retreat. She could feel how his thumbs comfortingly caressed her clavicles as she fought to get air into her lungs.

‘Sabra, _what_ is wrong?’ He sounded so worried for her, that it broke through her panic, and brought tears to her eyes.

‘ _He raped me._ ’ She gasped. ‘ _I froze up... And... and he raped me._ ’ The sudden influx of realisation and mental pain had her trembling, and if Thorin hadn’t been supporting her, she would have collapsed onto her knees. ‘ _I should have tried harder. I should have **fought** him._ ’ Sabra looked up at the Dwarf King, anguish in her eyes. ‘ _ **Why** didn’t I fight him? I **could** have fought him. It’s not like I haven’t taken out men like him before._ ’

This last bit of information elicited a darkly aggressive grunt from Thorin.

‘You were attacked _more than once?_ ’ His voice was tense.

The question pulled her out of her downwards spiral of self-blame for a few seconds. She gave him an incredulous look and noticed the strain around his mouth and eyes. His gaze reflected her own anguish right back at her.

‘What do _you_ think? I am a _woman_. Men do _not_ need _any_ other incentive to justify an assault. _Of course_ there have been others. But I’ve always managed to take them out before they could do too much damage.’ Another gasp tore from her throat. ‘I was _trained_ on how to defend myself. _**Why**_ wasn’t I able to do that _this time?_ ’ Her voice trailed off in a whisper. One lonely tear rolled down her cheek when she shut her eyes and dropped her head in defeat. She brought her hands up to her face to hide it in shame.

She could hear how Thorin let out a shuddering breath before he gingerly took a hold of her wrists and slowly pulled her hands away from her face.

‘I do not know _how_ or _why_ it happens, but I do know that it _does_. Sometimes, in the heat of battle, a warrior freezes; he forgets _all_ his training, and is unable to move, unable to make the decisions that will save him. I have _seen_ it happen. It is _not_ the warrior’s fault. It is a thing that just... happens.’ He gently explained. ‘It was _not_ your fault, _Ibinê_. _**None**_ of it was your fault.’

With a gentleness that caused more tears to fall from her lashes, he helped her out of her backpack. He put it down on the ground, leaning it against a tree, and then held his arms open to her. Offering her comfort, and allowing her to choose it, or not.

Without hesitation, she stepped into his embrace and leaned against him, feeling how he loosely wrapped his strong arms around her. It would only take a shrug of her shoulders for her to break free from his hug.

‘I’m _so_ sorry for panicking...’ She began. He quickly interrupted her apology.

‘ _No_ , you have _nothing_ to be sorry for.’ His tone was firm and unyielding. ‘ _ **I**_ should be the one apologising. _**I**_ was the one who kissed you, who made you go into a panic. I am sorry. It will _not_ happen again.’ His answer echoed through her with such finality that it startled her.

‘What? _No_!’ She pulled her head back from his shoulder to look up at him, her eyes wide in alarm. ‘It wasn’t the _kiss_ that made me panic. The kiss was _fantastic_.’ Smiling softly, she lifted her hand to touch his lips lightly with her fingertips. ‘The kiss was... perfect.’

He frowned.

‘Then what...’

‘It happened when you pushed me up against something and then boxed me in with your body. _That’s_ what set me off. I couldn’t move, I felt trapped. I couldn’t _breathe_. And then I was back under _him_...’ She shuddered when she though back to one of the darkest moments in her life. Thorin subconsciously tightened his embrace at her explanation, pulling her protectively into his body as he let out a soft, low groan that seemed to belong more to a wounded animal than to a Dwarf King. It occurred to her then, that her rape had affected him _much_ more than he would ever show to the world.

‘ _I could not protect you.’_ He whispered, sounding torn and broken. ‘ _I should have gone with you..._ ’

She clasped her hands around his face, forcing him to look at her. Seeing tears and a deep pain in his eyes, she shook her head.

‘You do **_not_** get to blame yourself for what happened. Just as you will not allow _**me**_ to blame myself. The only one who is to blame, is that _**filth**_ who attacked me.’

‘ _But, he **took** you... And I wasn’t there..._ ’

‘No, you weren’t. But **_I_** was. And I _killed_ him. I _**slaughtered**_ him; cut him open like the pig that he was. I bathed in his blood, and in the blood of his accomplices. They are _all **dead**_ , Thorin. And I did that. I do _not_ need protecting.’

‘Then what _do_ you need, if not protection?’ He looked lost.

‘your acceptance.’ She knew the enormity of what she was asking of him and she bit her lip as she observed the emotions that were now so easily to read on his face. She wondered if anyone had ever seen this side of him, or if he kept it carefully hidden at all times.

He was silent for some time before he spoke.

‘Agreed.’ He said. ‘Under two conditions.’

‘And those are?’ She couldn’t believe that he had granted her this. It meant that she would have a freedom under his reign that no-one else would ever have.

‘That you will accept my command in public, you will _not_ verbally go against it; if you have a problem with something, then you will bring it to my attention in _private_. You will _**not**_ undermine my rule over my people.’

Sabra nodded, she understood his logic.

‘I can live with that. And the second condition?’

‘You will keep in mind that my urge to protect you is _**equal**_ to your willingness to throw all caution into the wind when my safety is at stake.’

 _Shit_... She sighed. _Cunning bastard_...

‘Oh, _alright_.’ She conceded to the compromise. ‘Doesn’t mean that I won’t object to it, though.’

He inclined his head to her and the corners of his mouth tilted up when she suddenly yawned. Looked like all the emotions and stress of the past hours were catching up to her. Not to mention the sleepless night. She was about to crash.

‘Will you allow me to watch over you while you sleep?’ Thorin asked.

‘Sure.’ Another yawn stopped her from saying anything else.

The King sat down with his back against a boulder, the slope allowing him to lean back against it comfortably. He pulled her down by her hand and settled her between his legs, so that she rested with her back against his chest.

‘Is this alright?’

Humming in agreement and burrowing back against his bodyheat, she closed her eyes as she leaned her head back against his shoulder.

‘’S fine.’ She mumbled, already feeling herself drifting off. ‘Oh, and, Thorin?’

’Yes?’

’Thank you.’ _...For everything..._

He hummed under his breath in answer.

Before she knew it, his warmth and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, and the soothing up and down movement of his breathing, had lulled her into a deep sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: a bit of Radagast, and a lot of scary Orcs... O.o I think...
> 
> Feed(back) the Muse if you feel so inclined. Thank you! :D


	26. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waaaarrrrgggssss!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t own a thing -but my OFC and the storyline you don’t recognise- and I make no money writing this.
> 
> This is my Middle Earthy Sandbox.

Chapter 24

 

It was not an hour later when Thorin gently woke her from a blissfully dreamless sleep.

‘The old wizard has remembered.’ He said by explanation, his voice vibrating from his chest to her back and, from there, through her body. She shivered. It was a good shiver, though.

Looking up, she narrowed her eyes to slits to protect them against the mid-morning sun. Bofur stood off to the side, grinning at her as he comically rocked back and forth on his feet. He must have been the messenger to bring Thorin the news. Sabra groaned and rubbed her eyes.

‘That was _too short_ a nap.’ She complained, but she held her hand out for Bofur to pull her up; which he did, sending her another grin.

 _‘That looked quite cosy. Should I be defending the honour of my little sister?’_ He gleefully remarked under his breath. She gave him a playful shove. Which did nothing, because _even_ slender Bofur was apparently a block of peridodite, whose feet were rooted to the ground, unless he chose to lift one of them.

‘ _Oh, shut up._ ’ She grumbled. Bofur snickered and she gave him another shove. Then she turned around to lend Thorin a hand, but he had already risen to his feet. His expression was once again solemn and his regal bearing had returned.

_Right, the King of Dwarves is back, then._

Though, when she looked him in the eye, there was a warmth directed at her that she hadn’t seen before. It made butterflies explode in her tummy. _Oomph_... She pressed her hand to her abdomen to calm it down a bit. It had been a long time since she had reacted _this_ forcefully to a male... If she had ever. She couldn’t really remember. Her trysts had always been short. More the means to scratch an itch than anything else...

Thorin directed his attention to Bofur, his expression turning stern and unforgiving.

‘ _Not_ a word about this. To _anyone_.’

‘Wouldn’t _dream_ of it.’ Bofur answered; the Dwarf being serious for a change. ‘Well, I’m off. Don’t be long.’ He said as a goodbye, and disappeared behind the underbrush after throwing Sabra a last wink.

‘It’s not like nobody noticed that you climbed up to meet me, or that we’ve been missing from general view for the past hour; you _know_ that, _right_?’ Sabra casually observed.

‘I will _not_ have your reputation vilified by gossipmongers.’ Thorin said as he walked up to her, handing her her pack and her rifle.

Laughing in honest amusement, Sabra threw her head back. Then she sobered. A bit.

‘I think it’ll be too late for that. We’ve been together, unchaperoned, for over and hour. And everyone has to have noticed that by now. In this land of medieval ideas and values, I’m _pretty_ sure we were in severe transgression the moment we disappeared from view. You forbidding Bofur to speak of how and where he found us, is only fuel to the fire. Mark my words, by the time we’re back down there, I’ll have made a name for myself... _The King’s Mistress_ has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? Although, _the King’s Whore_ will probably be more in the direction of what the good folk of Middle Earth will be calling me. Good thing I don’t give a shit about my reputation, huh?’ She smiled up at him and winked.

Thorin grabbed her by her arm, his eyes haunted as he spoke.

‘Do not _ever_ speak so lowly of yourself ever again. _Promise_ me.’

Frowning at him, she pulled her arm free of his grip.

‘ _Fine_ , no more crass self-deprecating jokes. No worries, _your Majesty_ , I will keep mum on the reputation front. Alright?’

He nodded, still looking very serious.

Sabra playfully knocked her shoulder into his upper arm.

‘It _really_ is alright, Thorin. I don’t care what people think of me. I never have, and I don’t think that I will any time soon.’

The King turned fully towards her, frowning.

‘But, _I_ care. A woman’s reputation is _important_.’

She sighed, placing a hand against his cheek.

‘You can’t force you own opinions upon others. People have a right to make up their own minds about things. About me. And if they have another view on who I am than you do, then so be it.’ Smiling softly, she continued. ‘And I’m pretty sure most of your company find me acceptable. Fili and Kili offered to teach me how to gamble a few nights back. Bofur and Bombur are my friends. And I’m almost sure that Bifur likes me. Dwalin I’m less sure about, but I thought I saw him almost smile at me last week, and Balin tolerates me well enough. Oin and Gloin seem to like the fact that, in my own world, I own property, and have quite a bit of coin saved up. Bilbo seeks me out for conversation. And Nori, Dori and Ori were impressed with my knife skills. Nori compared it with having a good feel for slight of hand. Whatever that means.’ She shrugged. ‘So, I’m convinced _they_ won’t think anything less of me just because I snuck off with their King... Don’t worry so much.’ Leaning forward, and stretching up a bit, she gave him a soft kiss. ‘ _Everything_ will turn out _fine_.’

‘It is not the Company I am worried about.’ Thorin mumbled, following her lips with his when she pulled away, and coaxing another heated kiss from her before he stepped back.

‘Que sera sera.’ She mused quietly, and smirked when she saw Thorin’s uncomprehending expression. ‘It means, What will be will be. It’s from a language that’s spoken in my world...’ She tilted her head and snickered. ‘Not fun, is it? When you’re on the receiving end of a language you don’t understand?’

‘ _Cheeky_ woman.’

‘Yup, that’s me... Come on, let’s go see what Radagast has told Gandalf.’ Taking Thorin’s hand, she pulled him with her. When they appeared from behind the underbrush, the King let go of her hand after squeezing it lightly; observing an appropriate distance between himself and Sabra from the moment they were visible to the others.

 _Right... Back to being King of Dwarves._

When they arrived to where Gandalf and Radagast were still conversing, but now looking very worried, Sabra went to stand off to the side a bit, while Thorin stepped up to the two wizards.

‘What news is there?’ He asked.

Gandalf hummed, sounding concerned.

‘Something foul is brewing to the south of the Greenwood.’ He sighed, and then focussed his attention fully on the Dwarf King. ‘But not to be worried, it will not hinder your quest.’ He did his best to sound reassuring, but it was very clear to Sabra that Thorin wasn’t really buying it. There was a certain pull to his mouth and tilt to his head when he suspected that someone was bullshitting him. It was minimal, but to her it was visible.

Radagast had lost his train of thought again, it seemed, because he wandered away from the conversation. Sabra saw him scuffle her way, an intrigued expression on his face. She tried to ignore him for as long as she could, but he stepped into her space and tilted his head as he studied her from very close quarters. It was quite disconcerting. Her eyes flitted to his, and then away again. The wizard had quite a powerful gaze which she had trouble returning. She took a small step back and he followed; apparently having no comprehension about personal space. He then made a surprised sound in the back of his throat.

‘Why do you hide your _true_ nature?’ He asked her, tilting his head the other way; the question was posed in genuine curiosity, not in accusation. It attracted the attention of both Gandalf, and Thorin. The latter frowning confusedly at the brown clad wizard.

Raising both eyebrows in surprise, she was about to ask what the _fuck_ Radagast was talking about, when an otherworldly howl tore through the woods. She froze. _I know that sound..._

Bilbo stepped closer to Gandalf, looking very alarmed.

‘Was that a _wolf_? Are there _wolves_ out there?!’

Bofur looked into the direction of where the howl had come from.

‘Wolves? _No_ , that is not a wolf...’ He looked afraid. It was the first time that Sabra had ever seen him afraid. Not even when they had been captured by the trolls had he seemed this disturbed.

There was a crackling sound behind her and she turned, and saw the largest monstrously deformed wolf she had ever seen move toward them. _I know that thing_... No, That wasn’t right... She didn’t know it. _I have **seen** that before..._ She frowned. _How?_ All this shot through her mind in a millisecond; then the beast was moving. Jumping. Straight at Thorin.

_**Thorin!** _

The swords that had been tucked away at her back were in her hands before her brain had had the time to process what was happening; she was moving on pure instinct. The twin blades slashed through the air, singing from the speed with which they were wielded. The beast flew over her and she drove the swords into its chest, cutting through fur, and ribs, and tendons. Its own speed assisting in renting it open from sternum to pelvis, as if the monster was nothing but soft butter. It was dead before it hit the ground at Thorin’s feet; the blades having shredded its heart at the first impact.

The adrenaline must have sharpened her sight and improved her hearing, because she somehow sensed another threat before anyone else did.And before anyone had the time to react to her first kill, she whirled around and focussed on where she heard a monster sneaking closer in the underbrush. The new assailant was on the other side of Thorin, and as it leapt, maw with razor sharp teeth wide open, going in for the kill, she ran towards the King with her blades raised. A shrill roar left her throat as she jumped higher than she thougth herself capable of, half over Thorin, placing a foot upon a moss-covered, diagonally growing tree next to him, and pushing off, her entire being focussed on only one thing, _**protect**_.

Her blades found purchase just behind the head of the beast and with a scissoring movement, she severed its spinal cord. The beast’s velocity pulled her along with it when the swords would not rip free from where they were imbedded inside the strong neck muscles. Together, they landed at the King’s feet, Sabra letting out a painful ‘oomph’ at impact. She let go of her swords and rolled away from the dead monster with a groan, stumbling to her feet in the same movement; her senses still on high alert as she scanned their surroundings. She panted more from the adrenaline that had flooded her system, than from exertion. When she gripped her swords to pull them free from the dead beast, she suddenly realised that everyone around her seemed frozen, staring at her in awe and confusion. And... fear?

‘What?’ She asked, yanking her blades free and cleaning them on the coarse fur; frowning at the people around her.

‘Ah.’ Radagast said. ‘ _There_ it was.’ He stepped closer, studying her with narrowed eyes. ‘And now it’s gone again. So, it’s not on purpose then. Curious...’ His gaze suddenly widened, betraying his surprise. ‘ _Oh!_ You _don’t_ _**know**...’_

_I don’t know what? What the fuck is he on about?!_

‘What? What’s going on?’ Her voice was hoarse. _Why is that? Oh... Yeah, I yelled at the second beast._

‘Lass, it took you no more than three or four seconds to take out _both_ Wargs.’ Breathed Bofur. ‘It was near impossible to track yer movements, you were so fast. I’ve not seen _anyone_ move that fast before, _not_ even _you_.’

What? It hadn’t been only four seconds... Had it? It had seemed a lot longer from where she’d been standing. She looked up at Thorin, who was staring at her as if he had never seen her before. His eyes distant and cool. _Oh, no._

‘We do **_not_** have time for this.’ He then said, drawing his sword and turning away from her. _Oh... No..._ ‘They’re Warg scouts; which means an _Orc_ pack is not far behind.’

‘ ** _Orcs?!_** ’ The fear in Bilbo’s voice was almost palpable.

‘ _Who_ did you tell about your quest, beyond your kin?’ Asked Gandalf frantically, directing his attention to Thorin.

‘No-one.’ Thorin answered.

‘ _ **Who**_ **did you tell?!** ’ Gandalf bellowed.

‘ _ **No-one!** I swear!_ ’ The King stressed, his voice sure and steady.

Gandalf huffed and looked away.

‘ _What_ in _Durin’s_ name is going on?!’ Thorin asked.

‘You are being _hunted_.’ Gandalf’s tone was ominous, and Sabra rolled her eyes at the drama and panic the old man was causing among the dwarves. _Way to go, you old drama-queen, you’ve got everyone in a right panic now..._

‘We _have_ to get out of here.’ A pale Dwalin growled at Thorin.

‘We _can’t!_ ’ Ori suddenly shouted from where he was standing, a bit more up the mountain. ‘We have no ponies. They’ve _bolted!_ ’

 _Shit..._ Sabra breathed deeply. _Well, I guess we’ll be running, then..._

‘ _ **I’ll**_ draw them off!’ Radagast said, sounding sure of himself.

‘You can’t, these are _Gundabad_ Wargs, they will outrun you!’ Gandalf protested.

‘ ** _These_**.’ Radagast pointed at the animals who pulled his sleigh. ‘Are _**Rhosgobel Rabbits!**_ I’d like to see them _try!_ ’

The wizard jumped onto his sleigh and the rabbits almost immediately set off. As he passed her, he shot Sabra a last curious look, and then he was gone. Farther away, she could hear the yelps and growls of more Wargs as they picked up the rabbits’ scent.

After that, everyone quickly put on their backpacks and they were on their way, running in the opposite direction than the one the Wargs had come from, and where Radagast had disappeared to, but still trying to keep to their easterly direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo, no Orcs in this part, yet... But we have Wargs. :)
> 
> Next up: The Extreme Running Experiment. ;)
> 
> Feed(back) the Muse if you like.
> 
> Cheers! ^_^


	27. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Running, and hiding, and running again, and Magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own my OFC and the storyline you don’t recognise.
> 
> I make no money from writing this story.
> 
> This is my Middle Earthy Sandbox. :)

Chapter 25

 

What followed, were hours upon hours of running, alternated by hiding, and sneaking, and then running again. They ran through forests, up hills, and down; scaling mountainous areas, and jumping fast-flowing streams. Sometimes they were forced to go in circles, and sometimes they had to retrace their steps for a few miles, just so the Wargs wouldn’t pick up on the Company’s scent. All in all, it was slow going at one moment and running as fast as they could, pushing their limits, at another.

The Dwarves seemed to take their flight in stride and were quite good sprinters, with an unbelievably impressive endurance. Even Bilbo kept up with them better than expected. Gandalf led their company over the plains and hills, and didn’t show _any_ sign of exhaustion. Not even after six or seven hours of crazy cross country running.

Sabra hated _all_ of their guts. With the power of a thousand suns. Because she was fucking feeling it. _All of it._ The strain on her leg muscles and on her stomach muscles, and the burning in her lungs. The pounding behind her eyes. At one point, when she’d stumbled for what felt like the fiftieth time, Thorin had taken her pack from her and shrugged it onto his own back. She’d only protested a little; too relieved to be freed from the burden. Somehow, while everyone else was doing fine, she was feeling worse by the hour. The only thing that kept her going was that she knew about the light at the end of the tunnel. _Rivendell_. If she hadn’t screwed up the timeline too badly, that was what was coming next... At least, she thought it was... _right?_... She hoped.

It was nearing the end of the afternoon, while they were crossing a wide, open plain, which was covered with long, yellowed grasses and which had only a few hiding places, when their luck finally ran out. Radagast had unknowingly crossed their path and one of the Wargs that had fallen behind on its pack, had picked up on their scent. Thankfully it was only the one Warg and its rider, which was now standing upon the piece of jagged rock that the company was hiding behind. It sniffed the air right above them, inhaling and exhaling loudly. Then it turned away again and growled, deep down in its chest.

Sabra could hear the * _snickt_ * when the Orc who rode the Warg pulled a sword out of its scabbard. Next to her, on her left, Thorin nudged Kili, who was to _his_ left, nodding to the youngster’s bow and arrows. Curious, she slightly bent forward to see what Kili would do, and was pushed back against the rock by a strong, vambrace covered arm, which tucked itself over her upper chest just below her clavicles; a large hand folding itself firmly over her right shoulder. The breath was almost knocked out of her from the impact she made with the boulder at her back. _Sheesh, alright, I got it... I’ll keep out of sight. Not necessary to become touchy feely about it_ , her glare at Thorin said. He glared back, the expression on his face a mix of anger, warning and bewilderment, as if he wondered how she could suddenly become so careless and almost betray their hiding place.

She wasn’t sure about what had come over her, either. All she knew was that her head pounded in uneven batches of pain, ebbing and flowing like waves, and that she was having trouble thinking clearly. It impaired her judgement. _Severely_.

It was then that Kili stepped out from the shade of the rock and blindly let an arrow fly towards the Warg and its rider. It hit the Warg in the chest. Sadly enough, it didn’t kill instantly. Kili quickly fired another arrow, this time hitting the Orc who was about to blow a horn to alert the others. Both of them tumbled down off the rock and onto the grass, severely wounded. Three or four of the Dwarves jumped on top of them, hacking and stabbing the creatures to death, while the monsters snarled and screamed

Sabra was frozen, but not in fear or in shock of the imminent attack; no, it was from _recognition_. Her eyes were wide and unblinking as she stared at the Orc at her feet. It was staring back at her with unseeing eyes. She had come face to face with one of the horrific monsters from her nightmarish dreams. The moment she laid eyes on the Orc, was the moment she remembered the faceless creatures that circled the tiny child whom she dreamed about. Only now they had monstrous faces, and voices. Oh, that _speech!_ It hurt her ears. She pressed her hands to her ears so she wouldn’t have to listen to that ugly, horrific speech, and whimpered. She was so small and so afraid. And they were so big. She felt so alone. Where had they taken her? Where was Emil? She didn’t want to be here anymore!

‘ _Emil_.’ She whispered with a desparation that bordered on desolation, eyes unseeing, until there were two large hands on her shoulders, gripping tight. She was shaken from the waking nightmare, and was plunged straight into another.

‘ _Sabra!_ ’ Thorin hissed, frowning at her in displeasure. ‘ _What are you doing? We have to **go!**_ ’

Taking in a shuddering breath, Sabra shook the feeling of displacement from her body and followed Thorin, grabbing a strap that hung from the backpack he was still carrying, and wrapping it around her hand so that she wouldn’t lose him, or the group, while they ran at full speed, now being chased by the pack of Wargs.

The Company of Thorin Oakenshield had been discovered.

It wasn’t much later that Thorin came to a full stop, Sabra carrying on with the momentum and running into the backpack. _Ouch_. When she looked up, her body grew cold.

They were surrounded.

Thorin turned every way possible, looking for a way out, hauling Sabra with him because she was still holding onto the strap. She had also been sweeping the landscape around them with her gaze, and came to the conclusion that all of their possible escape routes had been cut off. _Shite!_

‘There’s more coming!’ Yelled Kili as he came running towards them.

Thorin did another sweep of their surroundings, this time making sure that all Company members were accounted for.

‘ _ **Kili!**_ ’ He shouted at his nephew, ‘ ** _Shoot them!_** ’

Each and every member of the Company had drawn their weapons. Except for Sabra. She was trying to dislodge her swords from the backpack, but as it was still on Thorin’s back, and the stupid fucker kept moving around, she wasn’t able to lift them out from between the shoulder straps. She’d figured the glock would do for the Orcs, but she wasn’t so sure about the Wargs. Her blades would be a ‘safer’ bet then. Probably.

‘ _ **Thorin!**_ Will you stand still for a fucking second?! I’m trying to get to my _goddamn_ swords!’ Her voice was beyond annoyed. Nothing went as she wanted it to, her muscles hurt, and her head was pounding again. She was at the end of her patience.

‘We’re surrounded!’ Fili cried as he whirled around, looking for a way out.

Thorin bent over slightly, towards her, and finally she was able to grab her swords. She nodded gratefully.

‘Thanks.’

‘ _ **Where’s Gandalf?!**_ ’ Dwalin shouted while he came running; Bilbo and Bofur on his heels. ‘ _ **He’s abandoned us!**_ ’ His tone was accusatory.

Sabra looked around and concluded that Dwalin was right. Gandalf was nowhere to be seen. What had happened to him? Wait... Didn’t he find this secret passage to the Elves somewhere around here? She frowned when she had trouble remembering.

 _Shite. I should have paid a bit more attention to those movies... But I had arm candy to snuggle up to and ravish... Dammit._ She cursed her former self for being so shallow and using going to the cinema as an excuse for extensive make-out sessions. _Urgh... Should have taken fuckin’ **notes!**_

The group of Dwarves, Hobbit and Sabra banded closer together as the Orcs advanced on them.

‘ **Hold your GROUND!** ’ Thorin bellowed as he took a defensive position with his sword. Sabra followed his example. It didn’t escape her attention that the King kept himself in front of her at all times, effectively placing himself between her and the threat. _Infuriating Dwarf!_ She growled at his back when he followed her movements as she tried to move away from him. Somehow he had eyes in the back of his head. _Arse!_

Kili fired a couple of arrows that hit their targets, but it didn’t deter any of the other foes, or forced them to retreat. They kept on pressing the group further and further back, forcing the Dwarves closer together.

Suddenly, there was a yell from behind them.

‘ _ **This way! You fools!**_ ’ _Ah... Gandalf..._ Sabra closed her eyes in relief. He’d found them a refuge. Just as she’d seen in the movies. So, maybe not too much had been changed by her presence, then.

Thorin had turned toward the sound of Gandalf’s yell and ran to the rock behind which the wizard had disappeared. He jumped up onto it and gestured at the company to jump into the chasm behind the boulder.

‘ _ **Quickly! All of you!**_ ’

When he looked at her, she was sure that he meant for her to go as one of the first, but she shook her head and stood her ground.

‘If you _think_ that I’m leaving you out here all on your own while you defend us as we jump down to safety, then you are _mistaken_.’ She shook her head. ‘I go with _you_ , or I don’t go at all.’

With a grunt and a frown, he turned away, encouraging his Dwarves to hurry and jump down the hole.

The Wargs came ever closer and Sabra pulled her Glock; keeping both swords in one hand. The pain in her head made it difficult for her to focus, but when she pulled the trigger, she somehow managed a headshot on one of the Orcs. He tumbled backwards from his Warg. The others became a bit more careful after that. If it was the swift death she’d dealt, or the enormous bang that kept them away, she didn’t know. Didn’t care, either, actually. As long as everyone got to safety in time.

One by one, the Dwarves and Bilbo passed her by as they slid down into the narrow cave-like passage. She kept firing her glock at the Orcs, who had begun to advance on them again. She took three more down with a headshot before the pounding in her head became too severe and she had to lower her gun.

Kili, who had been standing in front of them, about twenty yards away, was firing arrow after arrow at the monstrous beasts. When all of the Company had descended into ‘safety’, Thorin turned to his youngest nephew.

‘ ** _Kili! Run!_** ’ He bellowed.

Kili turned around and ran as fast as he could, making it just in time to escape a Warg attack. He jumped down the hole as Thorin hacked his sword into a Warg that came too close. Then he grabbed Sabra, who had holstered her Glock and was rubbing at her temple to ease the blinding pain in her head, and pulled her down with him when he jumped into the relative safety of the cavern.

Sabra let out a cry in surprise and thankfully had the quick reflex to keep her swords out of the way as much as possible as they tumbled down the sloped rock that hid the entrance to the cave. Wouldn’t want to get skewered after escaping from getting skewered.

She scrambled to her feet when both of them had stopped sliding downwards, Thorin following her example. She glared at him and opened her mouth to admonish him about manhandling her like he had and the issue of weapon’s safety, concerning the two very sharp swords she was still holding, when suddenly a loud horn sounded from outside. The noise of fighting reached her ears and out of the blue, an Orc slid down the incline, an arrow wedged into its neck.

Thorin stepped up to it and tore the arrow loose.

‘Elves!’ He exclaimed after examining it; his mouth pulling downward, disdain clearly visible on his face. Throwing the arrow away as if it had burned him, he turned his attention to Gandalf, suspicion creeping into his expression.

 _Sheesh, he really has to get over this Elvish hang-up of his; otherwise we’ll be in a world of hurt later on._ Sabra thought as she leaned against the wall of the cave, resting her pounding head against the cool stone. She closed her eyes and concentrated on how the cold rock felt tingly against her temple. It did nothing to soothe the pain, but it kept her centred. She was feeling increasingly poorly and it worried her. Her limbs were shaky and her neck and head hurt. Her heart had started racing at random intervals, even when she wasn’t running for her life, and it had made her feel out of breath more often than what was normal.

She was becoming worried about the very real possibility of having contracted a disease that was unknown to her own world; a virus which was wrecking her immune system, and which she hadn’t any antibodies against. The fear niggled at her mind, but she pushed it away stubbornly. Now was not the time to have a break-down. They had to get to safety.

Sighing, she pushed off from the wall when she heard Dwalin shouting about not seeing where the passage led, and Bofur answering him to just follow it. He was right, though, there was _no way_ they’d be going back the way they came. It was too dangerous.

Wondering how far they’d have to walk before they came to the Hidden Valley, Sabra shuffled on behind Bilbo and Gandalf, at the back of the group; keeping her eyes trained on the ground and concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other as dizziness and nausea overtook the pounding in her head as the main annoyances of her existence. Sweat started to bead on her forehead from the effort it took to keep upright and not puke her guts out.

It was taking them a long time to pass through the narrow passage and she was starting to wonder if she was even going to make it to the end. She was becoming worse; she could feel it, deep inside. In front of her, she heard Bilbo suddenly ask Gandalf where they were, exactly. She looked up and saw how he gazed around the canyon they were traveling through; wonder in his eyes.

‘you can _feel_ it?’ Gandalf asked the Hobbit, sounding surprised.

‘Yes... It feels like... Well, like _Magic_.’ Bilbo said, looking up at the wizard.

Gandalf smiled a secretive smile.

‘That is _exactly_ what it is... A very _powerful_ magic.’ His voice was quiet enough, so that only Bilbo, and Sabra, could hear his answer.

Sabra stuck out her hand to lean against the rock, unable to keep upright on her own any longer. Dizziness playing havoc with her ability to keep her balance.

From the instance she touched the rough surface, something akin an electric shock went through her body, followed by another; and another. It felt like a heartbeat. It felt alive. The walls pulsed with power and it made her gasp for breath as it pulsed through her, and then _into_ her through her hand, filling her to the brim with power and light until she thought she’d explode from the enormous pressure on her being, before it retreated again, leaving her compeletely disoriented. And then she was vomiting; throwing up what little she had eaten that day and dry-heaving when that had all been expelled. She fell to her knees, pulling her hand away from the wall as if she’d been burned; clutching it to her chest with her other hand.

In the very distance she could hear Dwalin say that there was light ahead. Had they almost reached the end of the passage?

A pair of leather clad knees appeared in her field of vision and a pair of strong hands clutched at her upper arms as she was hauled to her feet. Startled, she looked up, straight into Thorin’s worried face. His lips were moving, but she couldn’t hear him over the sudden pounding of her heart. It had started galloping inside her chest again. Gasping for air, she fell forward, against Thorin’s chest, and he wrapped his arms around her to help keep her upright.

He said something to Gandalf, who frowned and shook his head, reaching out to touch her forehead, but she flinched away from his fingers, not really feeling like touching anything else magical. It didn’t really agree with her, she concluded. Bilbo was staring at her with wide eyes, like a deer in headlights.

Slowly, her heart calmed down again, and the dizziness retreated. It allowed her to hear what Thorin was saying to Bilbo and Gandalf.

‘What happened?’ His voice was rough and accusing as he gazed upon the two males.

‘It was nothing, really. I was talking to Gandalf, and then, suddenly, Sabra was falling over, and vomiting...’ Bilbo explained. He hesitated for a second, frowning and looking between Gandalf and Thorin, but then he seemed to come to a decision. ‘Actually, no. She touched the rockface just before she fell over. Her eyes glowed silver. And then she was sick. It all took place very quickly.’

Thorin reached out a hand to the stone and touched it before Sabra had a chance to warn him against it. She braced for him to collapse, but nothing happened. _What?_ Her eyes widened when she realised that the magic living in these walls had no effect on him. _Why not?_ She wondered.

‘I feel nothing, but a trace of magic.’ The King said. He frowned and looked at her. ‘What do _you_ feel?’

Sabra cleared her throat and swallowed, her mouth felt dry and she had a disgusting taste in her mouth.

‘I... Um...’ She hesitated, searching for words to explain. ‘It feels like an inferno with a heartbeat. It burns and pulses. It’s _alive_. I felt it look into me, and then it withdrew. Almost like it’s... _sentient_.’

She heard Gandalf hum in agreement and she met his gaze with unwavering determination.

‘ _What_ do you _know?_ ’ She asked. ‘About _this_.’ Gesturing around at the narrow corridor that surrounded them. ‘And about _me_? _**What is happening to me?**_ ’ Her heart was in her throat as she refused to back down from the old man’s piercing gaze.

The wizard then raised his eyebrows in an almost comical show of feigned innocence.

‘Hm?... Oh, I only have a few suspicions. But, alas, nothing concrete.’ He was silent for a second, and Sabra thought she’d explode from frustration. ‘I _do_ know of someone who might be able to shed more light on it, though. As it were, it is the same person who knows more about your map, Thorin.’

 _Gandalf, the master of distractions. Goddamn wizard!_ She growled a low sound of annoyance, in the back of her throat.

Thorin blanched, his arms tightening around her from the increased tension in his body.

‘ _Where_ are you leading us?!’ He demanded to know.

‘Follow me...’ was all Gandalf said, and he turned and walked away, Bilbo following in his wake.

‘I can’t _believe_ that arsehole!’ Sabra grumbled, letting her head fall forward against Thorin’s shoulder in helpless frustration. She sighed.

‘He has _too_ many secrets and holds them all too close to his chest.’ Thorin agreed with her. Then he laid a large hand on the back of her head, hugging her to him in a more intimate way than how he had held her when Gandalf and Bilbo had been present. ‘Are you well enough to continue?’ He asked gently.

Sabra did a small check on her ability to stand and walk. She was still dizzy and nauseous and her head pounded, but she was sure she would be able to walk unaided. Nodding, she stepped out of the King’s arms and bent to pick up her swords from where she’d dropped them when she touched the rock. Thorin helped her to put them back into their places between the shoulder straps of the pack on his back, and then offered her his arm.

It was such an old-world gesture, which was so familiar and so foreign at the same time, that she snickered and just accepted it. She was grateful for the support, though, because, no matter how she tried to fool herself into thinking that she was doing alright, she actually wasn’t feeling all that well.

In front of them, the passage bent to the right and when they came around the bend, the narrow canyon opened up into a beautiful vista of luscious green woods and sparkling waterfalls, between which, down below, in the distance, lay an array of beautifully ornamented buildings.

‘ _Rivendell_.’ Sabra heard Bilbo whisper reverently.

‘Here lies the Last Homely House east of the sea.’ Gandalf said.

All Sabra could do was gape at the extraordinary view. It looked like something out of a fairy tale. 

Thorin turned to Gandalf.

‘ _This_ was your plan all along! To seek refuge with our _enemy_!’ He growled at Gandalf.

 _Oh dear..._ Sabra watched the conversation between the two males from the corner of her eyes.

‘You have _no_ enemies here, Thorin Oakedshield.’ The wizard said, sounding slightly annoyed. ‘The only ill will to be found in this valley, is that which you bring _yourself_.’

‘You think the Elves will give our quest their _blessing?!_ They will try to _stop_ us!’ Thorin argued. The Dwarf did not know when to leave well enough alone.

 _Oh-kay... Maybe it’s time to move on._ Sabra stepped past the wizard and the Dwarf, making her way to the other Dwarves down the path, being careful not to stumble.

Behind her, she heard the discussion go on for a bit longer, but she’d had enough. She wanted a bath, some food, and a bed; and hopefully have a good night of sleep, and then awake the following day without this infernal headache.

Sidling up to Bofur, who was watching the beautiful landscape with a smile on his face, she wrapped her arm around his.

‘What do you say, my friend, are you going to accompany me to those lodgings over there? See what’s on the menu tonight? Hm?’

Bofur grinned at her.

‘I thought ye’d never ask!’ He said. ‘Lead the way!’

Gandalf chose that exact moment to come strolling by with Thorin hot on his heels.

‘Follow me.’ The wizard said, and began the descent into the Hidden Valley.

‘I think he’s even hungrier than we are.’ Bofur joked beside her as he watched the old man trot down the path.

‘Well, he’s _crankier_ , that’s for sure.’ Sabra countered, earning her a snicker from Bofur.

‘I _heard_ that, Mistress Ashford.’ Came the loud, annoyed voice of the wizard.

‘ _Oh, shite_.’ Sabra whispered and started snickering. Bofur barked out a laugh and pulled her with him, down the track and toward the Last Homely House, where they would hopefully find some rest and food. And maybe even some answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Rivendell
> 
> Feed(back) the Muse if you want. 
> 
> Cheers! :D


	28. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing but my OFC and the storyline you don’t recognise.
> 
> I make no money from this story.
> 
> This is my Sandbox! Yay! :D

Chapter 26

 

The steep narrow path that led down into the valley widened after about a mile, and eventually came out onto a paved road of sorts. The road, in turn, led them over a bridge and in between two statues of what Sabra concluded were some kind of guard, as the elves that looked down on them from higher up, were clothed and armed in similar fashion.

She walked at the back of the procession, leaning heavily on Bofur and Bifur, while Oin and Gloin were behind them, commenting on their surroundings. If she hadn’t been fighting to stay conscious, then she’d have found their remarks quite amusing. Now, they only grated on her already suffering brain.

Feeling as if she was wading through knee-deep mud, she let out a sigh of relief when the Company came to a halt on a large, platform-like courtyard, which had high cliffs bordering on one side and a steep incline towards a river on the other. Stairs led up from the courtyard to the buildings in front of them, and there were a few narrow paths leading away from it. A yellowish orange evening light shone trough the valley, bathing everything in a warm, golden glow. It was a very tranquil setting. 

The Company watched on as Gandalf was greeted by a dark-haired Elf who had descended the stairs. They exchanged a few words, until, suddenly, a horn was blown behind them. It sounded a lot like the horn Sabra had heard that afternoon, in the cavern.

Dwalin shouted something in that strange language of theirs and every Dwarf reacted.

‘Close ranks!’ Thorin bellowed, and then there were soldiers on horseback thundering over the bridge, heading straight for them. Sabra was pushed to the middle of the group, together with Bilbo, while the Dwarves formed an almost impenetrable wall around them, weapons drawn.

Within seconds, they were surrounded by large, intimidating horses, and their riders, as they rode in circles around them. Sabra stepped back when one of them came a bit too close for comfort and lost her balance. She bumped into a solid form and strong arms wrapped around her from behind; leather vambraced forearms sliding over her midriff and her tummy.

‘ _Are you alright?_ ’ Thorin whispered next to her ear. Sabra shook her head as a shiver travelled down her spine. The King tightened his hold on her, taking most, if not all, of her weight as he supported her. Grateful, she leaned back against him and together they watched how Gandalf greeted the Elf leader and struck up a conversation. When the leader dismounted, Thorin slowly put her back on her feet and urged her to stand behind him.

‘ _Stay close._ ’ He commanded. Sabra nodded and blindly grabbed on to her pack, which Thorin was still carrying, effectively hiding herself behind it. If she had been well, she’d have laughed at his ‘suggestion’, but now... She had no idea how she was still standing. Everything around her danced up and down in time with her heartbeat and sometimes, her vision blurred out and everything had a harsh and unforgiving glow. It burned into her brain. Closing her eyes, she leaned her forehead against the backpack, concentrating on staying awake.

When Thorin stepped forward, she automatically mirrorred his movement, her legs trembling.

Then she heard the Elf speak to Thorin.

‘Welcome, Thorin, son of Thrain.’

‘I do not believe we have _met_.’ Thorin replied. Sabra could hear hostility colour his tone. _Please don’t fuck this up_ , She mentally pleaded with him.

Lord Elrond, because he could be no other in Sabra’s mind, didn’t acknowledge his barb and continued the conversation as if nothing has been said.

‘You have your grandfather’s bearing... I knew _Thror_ , when he ruled under the Mountain.’

‘ _Indeed_...’ Thorin countered, succeeding in making that one word sound offensive. ‘He made no mention of y...’

Sabra lost her grip on the pack and keeled over, landing on her hands and knees next to the King, gasping for air, her breaths short and wheezing. Her lungs felt as if they were full of water. Hacking and coughing, she tried to expell the offending liquid. And then she coughed up blood. It splattered over the flagstones, leaving dark red stains on the yellowish brown surface. Fuck.

‘ _ **Sabra!**_ ’ Thorin shouted, his tone one of shock and worry. He was on his knees beside her within the blink of an eye, pulling her to him, trying to get her upright against his chest. He paled when he saw the blood on her lips and her chin. Sabra gulped in air laboriously and felt how her nose started to bleed, her body trembling with spasms. The pounding in her head was narrowing her sight and causing black spots to dance in her vision. All she could still perceive were the worried faces of the Dwarves, who crowded around her and their King. Beyond that, everything was hazy.

Suddenly, Lord Elrond was towering over them, at first looking down at her in confusion and worry, but then his eyes focussed on the swords which were attached to her backpack. He reached out and took one out of its place on Thorin’s back, turning it this way and that and studying the embossing on the blade.

‘ _Where_ did you find these?’ His voice compelling and filled with a mixture of wonder and apprehension. ‘These swords haven’t been seen since the First Age. Since the Second Kinslaying.’ He turned his gaze to Thorin, his eyes almost glowing with power. ‘ _How_ did you come by these?’

Thorin frowned at the Elf Lord, his expression rebellious.

‘They are _not_ mine.’ He nodded at Sabra, who was fighting to breathe. ‘They are _hers_.’ Elrond’s eyes widened in surprise when they looked back at her.

She didn’t think she could hold on much longer and started coughing again, expelling more blood from her lungs. _Shite... This is not good!_

Thorin’s expression turned desperate as he gazed down on her. She could see a sudden grief in his eyes. Lifting her trembling hand, she caressed his cheek. ‘ _I regret... Nothing._ ’ She gasped. His eyes softened as he grasped her hand and held it to his face. Then he seemed to come to a decision, she could see it in his expression. His jaw tightened and he closed his eyes as if he were in pain. Then he expelled a deep sigh. When he opened his eyes again, his face was devoid of emotion, except for his gaze, which was burning with a feverish determination. He gave her one last look and then gazed up at Lord Elrond.

‘Please, I _beg_ of you, help her... I think she is dying. She needs your help... _Please_.’ After this, the King lowered his head in submission to the Elf Lord, eliciting shocked gasps from the Dwarves in the company.

Elrond was on his knees on the other side of Sabra within a second of Thorin’s prayer, laying the sword down next to her. He must have been waiting for the King’s explicit request. Which didn’t surprise Sabra in the least. _Stupid medieval customs. Can’t even help a girl without explicit permission of their male... whatever_ , the part of her mind that wasn’t preoccupied with survival grumbled.

Cool fingers touched her face as the Elf Lord looked her in the eyes for the first time since they’d arrived. His gasp was almost as loud as her wail was when his skin came into contact with hers. The same power as she had felt pulsating in the magic in the passage filled her being, only it was a thousandfold more powerful. Its light burned her from the inside out and her body arched under the unexpected force that invaded what felt like her entire being, and then more. She somehow became bigger on the inside, and it hurt. It burned, like an inferno. A painful scream was torn from her already bleeding throat, and then a shockwave travelled outwards from her centre when something inside of her burst.

Immediately, Elronds fingers disappeared from her skin as he was thrown away from her by an unseen force. It also pushed the Dwarves around them from their feet. The only ones who seemed to be able to weather the sudden energy-wave were Gandalf, whose robes violently fluttered around him, and Thorin, who was holding on to her as if his life depended on it.

Her vision warped and, again, everything and everyone around her was shining too brightly, emitting its -their- own light. When she looked up at Thorin, she saw how there was a sapphire glow around him, interlaced with beautifully sparkling gold veins. _Lapis Lazuli_ , her brain provided. And she agreed. It was fitting somehow. The Dwarf King who pulled his power from the earth. She could see the strength pulse inside him when she caught sight of his eyes. The blue of his gaze was heightened somehow.

‘ _Please, don’t... let... me go._ ’ She panted, and she coughed again, more blood flowing down her chin and out of her nose. Whatever Elrond had done, it had made her worse. She could now feel something alien writhing inside of her. If it was inside her body, or inside her spirit, or both, she couldn’t tell. All she knew was that it didn’t look, or feel, like she’d come through it in one piece. This wasn’t going to end well. ‘ _I’m afraid._ ’ A tear escaped her eye and rolled down her temple.

Thorin hugged her to him as if she was the most fragile thing in the world, and maybe, in that moment, she was. She felt like it. As if she’d shatter within the next gasping breath, or within the next wave of excruciating pain. Fear and grief stood toe to toe with pain and desperation. This was not how she wanted to go out; haemorrhaging all over the floor while seizures wracked her body.

The King turned his attention to Lord Elrond, who was picking himself up from where he’d landed, a few yards away.

‘What have you _done_?! You have made her _worse_!’ His tone was accusing and Sabra could see his fury on his face.

‘I have done nothing, but try to assess what ailes her. It is her own body attacking itself that is causing all this.’ The Elf Lord answered, looking harried, and haunted. He then turned to the Elf who had first greeted them. ‘Lindir, send word to the Lady Galadriel. Tell her she is needed. _Now_.’

The Elf inclined his head.

‘Milord... What if she asks _why_?’

‘Tell her that the hunter’s treasure has returned. Damaged.’

‘Milord?’ The Elf looked puzzled, his eyes flitting between Sabra and Elrond.

Elrond sighed irritably.

‘She will know what I mean. _**Go!**_ ’

The Elf hurried away after a swift bow, and Elrond turned back to Thorin.

‘We need to bring her to the house of healing. I cannot help her here.’ He crouched down and held out his arms. ‘Give her to me.’

‘ _ **No!**_ ’ Growled Thorin, pulling Sabra tighter against him. ‘You _touched_ her, and she became _worse_. _**I**_ will take her where she has to go.’ His eyes burned with rage as he looked at the Elf Lord.

Sabra looked on as Elrond nodded; a resigned expression gracing his features. The Elf exuded a beautiful and tranquil white golden light; he was almost too bright to behold. She couldn’t turn away from it, it was so exquisite.

Then everything wavered and her vision was back to normal again, black spots creeping up her vision. 

Just before the Elf stood, she grabbed onto the hem of his sleeve, careful not to touch his skin.

‘ _Can... can you... help me?_ ’ She croaked, looking into the Elf’s grey eyes.

Elrond tilted his head when he looked at her, observing her through narrowed eyes, as if he was looking beyond the physical.

‘We will try.’ Was all he said; his tone solemn.

_Well, at least he’s honest._

With that, he stood, giving a few elves who had come closer a few quick instructions. Then he turned to the company.

‘We have food and drink ready for you.’ He gestured to the Elves. ‘They will take you to the dining halls. Please, make yourselves at home.’ Then he turned to Thorin, who had stood with Sabra in his arms, carrying her bridal style, not showing any exertion whatsoever. ‘If you will follow me. We must make haste.’

Thorin nodded and started following the Elf. A few of the Dwarves protested, but were quieted by a quick glare from their King as he passed them by.

Sabra closed her eyes and leaned her head against Thorin’s shoulder, her body feeling heavy and strenghtless. The pain ebbing and flowing inside her now taking up her whole being. It would be so easy to just let go. Drift off into the painless dark that she felt pushing against the edges of her consciousness.

But then there was Thorin’s voice, pulling her back. Whispering.

‘ _Stay with me, Sabra... Hang on just a bit longer... I will not let you go._ ’

There was a sudden jostle of her body when the King started running and she opened her eyes again. Elrond was running next to them, sending very worried glances her way. _Why_ were they suddenly so hasty? She was still alive... _Right?_... Then her respiration stopped very early on the inhale. And no matter how hard she fought, there was no air going into her lungs. _Oh gods_ , she couldn’t breathe. She could’t _breathe_!

Thorin deposited her carefully onto a bed. The minute he let go of her, she started to writhe and struggle, her eyes were feeling as if they were bulging out of her head in panic as she tried to pull air into her oxygen-starved body.

‘Help me hold her down, before she hurts herself.’ Elrond said to Thorin. 

 _What? No! Please, don’t hold me down! Please?!_ Sabra’s panicked eyes pleaded with the King as she fought for air.

‘I am sorry.’ Thorin looked pained, but did what Elrond said and pushed down on her shoulder with one hand and on her hip with the other, so that she was on her back on the bed, unable to move.

Elrond held her in the same fashion on her other side while her mind was screaming at them to let her go. She saw him flinch. Did he hear the silent, desperate cries?!

Then the doors to the healing room flew open with a bang, and a blinding golden light entered, slowly dimming down into a tall, blonde elven woman, whose hair floated around her as if it was whipping in an invisible wind; her white dress flowing behind her as she purposely walked towards them.

The woman laid a hand against her labouring chest and pushed, _hard_.

‘Rest now, _Elemmírë._ ’ Her voice was low and melodious and compelling, and no matter how hard she fought against the magical push, she slowly succumbed to it.

When she closed her eyes, a soothing warmth spread through her body, chasing away the pain and the anguish.

A golden light enveloped her being.

And then she was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy moly... That was quite the delivery, I can tell you that... Oomph...
> 
> Feed(back) if you like. The muse loves Kudos ;)
> 
> Next up: More answers... Right?


	29. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trippy trip trip...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellooooo, I'm baaaaaaack!
> 
> After a move from hell, I'm finally catching up with all of my stories, and today is the day that I update this one.
> 
> Whoooohooooo!
> 
> This still is my Middle Earthy Sandbox. I like to build castles and stuff... :)
> 
> Here's 4000+ words.

**Chapter 27**

 

When she opened her eyes, Sabra blinked in confusion, wondering if she’d gone blind. She blinked again, to make sure her eyes were really open, but there was no change. All around her there was utter darkness. It was everywhere, it seemed. She looked down and saw, and felt, how her feet were standing on a surface where there was none. Okay, so, the darkness was everywhere, except on her person. Everything around her was pitch black and nothing was reflected.

_Where the hell am I?_

Carefully, Sabra held up a hand and hesitantly waved it around. Then she reached out with her arm, as far as she could. Turning in a circle, there was not one moment that her hand disappeared into the inky blackness. As she raised it up to her face and moved it from side to side, she reached the conclusion that she could see herself, but nothing else. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say that she was in space, sans the stars, but she wasn’t floating; she could feel a solid surface beneath her feet. And she could still breathe. There just wasn’t anything around for her to determine her position; if up was really up and down was really down. The same was true for left and right. It was almost disconcerting enough to give her vertigo, but she forced herself to stay as calm as possible, and focused on finding out where the fuck she had landed herself. Her eyes sharply observing everything; trying to discern if there was any threat.

In the back of her mind, she knew that she was fucked. The last thing she remembered was not being able to breathe, and then she appeared to suddenly be transported here. Wherever the bloody hell ‘here’ was...

There was no disturbance of air when she breathed out a shuddering breath. No sound, only the rapid pounding of her heart in her ears, and even that was more of a feeling than something heard. 

The nothingness that surrounded her appeared to be some sort of vacuum. A vacuum in which she was somehow able to exist.

_‘What the fuck is going on?’_ Whispering to herself, she was able to feel her mouth form the words, and feel the breath leave her mouth, but no sound reached her ears

Looking down, she picked up a foot and carefully placed it about ten inches further in front of her, feeling for a surface with her toes. Her boot came into contact with something solid, and she gingerly set her foot down, picking up her other foot and repeating the process. Again, there was a surface supporting her. She jumped up and down, stomping on the surface with extra force. It didn’t give an inch. _Okay, so, sturdy enough then... just... invisible..._

Spinning in a circle, Sabra narrowed her eyes as she tried to discern anything out of the ordinary. 

_As if anything in this godforsaken place is ordinary._

She put her hands on her hips and frowned.

‘ _Well_. _Fuck.’_ She said, feeling the curse vibrate in her throat. This sucked. How was she going to find her way out of the vacuum if there was nothing there to help her navigate her path? She could just start out walking, thinking that she was moving in a straight line, and end up going in circles, and never even know it. ‘ _Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckityfuck. Fuuuuuuuuck.’_ She silently yelled into the void. Her vocal cords felt painful from the force she put on them as she vented her frustration.

Suddenly, a light, childlike giggle reached her ears. It was faint, and she almost thought she’d imagined it, but then there it was again.

Turning this way and that, she searched for the point where the sound originated. It was no use, somehow it had come from every direction. And then there was silence once more.

Wait... was that... a sliver of light, far in the distance?

Before she had registered what she was doing, she had automatically taken a few steps into the direction where she saw the light, but as soon as she moved, it disappeared.

_The fuck?!_

Then, again, she saw a small, twinkling light; now more to her left. She turned her head, and it disappeared.

Another bout of kiddie-giggles reached her ears.

_Is someone taking the piss out of me?!_

Grumbling, Sabra spun around when she felt a change in the air behind her; something that shouldn’t have been possible in the void that surrounded her, but neither was hearing a child’s laugh, and still she’d heard it. When she caught sight of what had materialised behind her, she recoiled and took a step back, stumbling over her own legs in her haste and landing herself on her bum. _‘Fuckin’ Hell.’_ She swore with feeling, and groaned when the pain of landing on the hard, unyielding surface registered with her pain receptors. Her hand rubbed her offended rear end as she scrambled to stand up. _‘Stupid, fucking floor! What did my arse ever do to you?!’_

The tall, slender woman standing over her, let out a low, amused laugh; very different from the twinkling giggles Sabra had heard before. A joyful smile graced the woman’s face when she spoke.

‘I see that time has not dulled your indomitable spirit, little one.’

_Little one?!_

The indignation at hearing the demeaning designation -for a woman Sabra’s age- must have been clearly visible on her face, because the woman retracted her words immediately, her expression turning contrite.

‘I am sorry if I offended you, _Elemmírë._ It was not my intention.’

_Elemmírë_... Where had she heard that before? Frowning, Sabra tried to grasp the thought that was just out of her reach. _Elemmírë..._

‘ _You were there.’_ She suddenly remembered the bright golden light in the healing room that had transformed into the willowy elf who now stood before her. _‘With Thorin, and Elrond... When I...’_

The woman nodded, her beautiful, long, white-golden hair falling forward over her shoulders with the movement.

‘I was... I still am... there.’ She confirmed.

_‘But, if you’re there, how can you be here?... And how is it that I can hear your voice, that you can speak, while I’m unable to even hear myself?! And what the hell does_ Elemmírë _mean?! What the_ ** _fuck_** _is happening?!’_ Sabra was starting to become irate with frustration at her new and confusing state of being, and with her inability to speak out loud.

Apparently, the elf woman had no trouble understanding her.

‘You are still there. Just as you are here. Here, is also there, as neither of us is corporeal.’ She very conveniently ignored the question about the nickname. At least, Sabra guessed it was a nickname.

She gaped at the blonde haired elf.

_‘Wha?’_

Failing to form a complete sentence, she tried again.

_‘How?...’_ Nope, apparently eloquence was out of the window for the moment.

‘The reason that you felt pain when landing on the floor -which, if you must know, isn’t there, because this,’ She gestured at the darkness around them, ‘is not a corporeal world-, is due to your mind being unaccepting of anything you can’t see or touch. It created the surface on which we are standing, so you would have a way to ground yourself. Thus your mind created the response that would follow a fall like that in the corporeal world, which is pain.’

Sabra’s eyes widened.

_‘Do you mean that this isn’t real? Am I hallucinating this? Hallucinating you? Is this happening because of oxigen deprivation? Am I dead?!’_ She remembered being unable to breathe; suffocating on the blood flowing into in her lungs.

A soft chuckle escaped the woman’s lips; her smile patient and indulgent and her eyes shining with a gentle compassion.

‘No, you are not dead. This plane of existence is as real as the corporeal world, where we can see, and smell, and touch...’

_‘Fine. Not hallucinating, then... So, where are we, and why can’t I seem to be able to produce any sound?’_

‘Why, we are in the place where your Fëa resides, of course.’ The elf looked around, searching, frowning. ‘Or, where it is supposed to reside.’

_‘Fëa? What the fuck is a fëa?!’_ Sabra stared at the elf, flabbergasted by the strange word.

‘Not _a fëa_ , Fëa.’

Sabra could almost hear the capital F when the elf patiently corrected her while she still looked like she searched for something. 

‘Where is it?’ The female mumbled, confused. 

Sabra had the impression that being confounded was something that rarely happened to the elf woman, if ever.

_‘Where’s what?’_ A sigh escaped her as she decided to play along with the elf’s way of explaining things, because it was clear that asking questions and getting straight answers wasn’t something that ever happened when it came to the being.

‘Your Fëa. It is supposed to be here.’ The woman seemed quite disconcerted by the fact that something inside Sabra’s being had been misplaced.

Shrugging, Sabra crossed her arms in front of her.

_‘I have no idea what you’re on about, lady, but I seem to be able to exist quite nicely without it, don’t I?’_

This earned her a very sceptical look from the elf.

‘The fact that your body is convulsing and bleeding out in Elrond’s halls of healing proves that you do not... You are dying, _Elemmírë._ ’

_Oh... that sucks..._ Sabra’s mind stated the obvious.

‘Indeed.’ In spite of the dire situation, the elf’s lips turned upwards at her dry remark.

_Wait a minute..._

_‘I did not say that out loud.’_ She protested.

‘No, you did not. But neither did you say that last part out loud, as we are inside your mind. Which is why you do not have to speak for me to hear you.’

_‘But why can’t I hear myself, then? If we are inside my mind, shouldn’t I be able to speak the way I want? Shouldn’t I be able to hear myself? To hear my surroundings?’_

‘Hmm.’ The other woman hummed in assent.

_‘Then why?’_

‘What was the first thing you noticed about our surroundings?’

_‘Um... The darkness. The nothingness. The... vacuum?’_

_Oh... Oh!_

_‘You mean, my mind decided this must be a vacuum, so it behaved accordingly; removing all sound?’_

‘But it is not. It is empty, but not a vacuum. You have to accept that you can do anything here. There are no boundaries to the possibilities. The only walls there are, are the ones your mind throws into your path. Once you understand that, you should be able to free yourself from your limitations.’

_Right. There is no spoon..._ Borrowing a phrase from The Matrix trilogy to visualise the concept the elf was explaining, Sabra forced herself to accept that she was not inside a vacuum; no matter how much it looked like it. _Fuckin’ hell... Going along with this new age mumbo jumbo nonsense like some kind of naive little acolyte._ Grumbling to herself, she relaxed and breathed out.

‘Okay, there is no vacuum.’ 

Ha! Her voice was back. And her hearing. 

The elf nodded at her, a small, but proud smile gracing her features.

‘Well done, _Elemmírë_.’

‘Why do you keep calling me that? That’s not my name.’

‘But it is... It is the name I gave you upon your birth.’

Frowning, Sabra couldn’t help but let out a bitter laugh.

‘My _birth_... Lady, I don’t know what _herb_ you’re on right now, but I was a foundling. I never knew my birth mother. Nor my father, for that matter. I was a ward of the state for the first eighteen months of my life, and after that, I was in foster care.’

‘I knew your mother. And your father. And they were devastated when you were taken. You were their treasure and they never stopped looking for you. It all but destroyed them in the end.’ A deep sadness came over the elf; the sorrow in her eyes unmeasurable.

‘ _No_ , you’re wrong. My name is Sabra. Sabra Ashford. My foster father was John Ashford, and my foster mother was Moira Ashford. That’s where I come from; that’s who I am. This world you call Middle-Earth; it’s just a story where I come from, a fairytale. I fell down a mountain, and I died, or something, and now I’m stuck here. In this fucking godforsaken place!’ Sabra gestured widely in her anger and frustration. ‘This... This purgatory! And my name sure as fuck isn’t _Elemmírë!’_

The elf in front of her stayed as serene and calm as Sabra was irate, and kept on talking to her in that irritatingly soothing voice. It made Sabra want to pull her hair out in exasperation.

‘Your mother’s name was Haleth. Haleth the Hunter. She came from a line of brave, noble folk. Her bloodline stood at the cradle of some of the greatest Kings of Men this world has seen. She was the Chieftain of her people, chosen for her bravery and her cunning after her father and brother were slain by orcs. Her people revered her so deeply, that until this day, their descendants, the Haladin, are still referred to as being members of the House of Haleth... You have met one of them on this day. Lord Elrond is a descendant of Haleth’s twin brother Haldar, whose son, Haldan became Chieftain upon Haleth’s death.’

Sabra’s mind reeled with the information the elf suddenly bombarded her with. Where she’d been aloof and evasive at first, the female was now too forthcoming. It was too much. Gasping for air, she tried to process the sudden influx of details.

‘ _No_.’ She protested again. ‘I come from Earth. I’m human.’ Unable to accept the things she was told, she stepped back, raising her hands in front of her and keeping them as a barrier between herself and the she-elf. ‘I’m not from here. This place is just a myth, and my dead brain has conjured it up. I’m human.’ Nerves exploded in her tummy when she gazed into the ancient eyes of the being who was spouting such nonsense. How could she ever believe what the elf was saying. It was impossible. This shit didn’t happen in real life. Not in her world...

A sad, compassionate smile appeared on the elf’s face.

‘Ah, so incredibly unyielding in your convictions. Just like your mother. You look almost exactly like her, did you know that? You have the same build. The same nose, and the same mouth. Even your hair is like hers, the hue, the curls. You are her mirror image; except for your eyes. You have your father’s eyes; your great-grandfather’s eyes.’

‘Uh-huh. Sure.’ Sabra’s sceptical attitude towards the elf didn’t make any impression it seemed, because she just continued her story.

‘When you were born, your mother named you Mireth, which means ‘ _jewel_ ’. She was so happy to have you. You were a gift to her; her treasure. It was a miracle wrought by elven magic that helped her to conceive you and carry you to term. 

‘She was thirty-six when she met your father, and she had given up hope of ever finding a male who would accept her as she was, stubborn and abbrasive, a woman to be reckoned with. She had passed the biggest part of her fertile years fighting, traveling, and leading, next to her father and brother, until they had perished, after which she became the sole Chieftain of the Haladin, and she had made peace with that existence.’

In spite of her resistance, and her reluctance to believe anything the elf was telling her, Sabra couldn’t help but become captivated by the story that was woven by her low, spell-binding voice. It didn’t escape her notice that the female could have been describing her own path in life. 

‘And then your father came along, saving her and her people from the orc siege that had them trapped for seven days.’ The elf tilted her head, and the expression on her face turned to one of pensive dreaminess. ‘He looked into her spirit, and she looked into his, and they both knew they had found their match. Both in bravery and in temper. There burned a fire between them that was incomparable to anything I had ever seen before. They were joined in marriage within a fortnight, and Haleth was pregnant within a month after that. But alas, she lost the child early on in the pregnancy. The second one did not live more than eight weeks inside her before her body rejected it. The third went the same way. And the child after that, and the child after that.’

Although the story was so far fetched in Sabra’s opinion that it sounded more like a fairytale than a recounting of history, her heart bled for the unknown woman. Her own infertility had plagued her when she was younger, until she came to accept it as something unchangeable. She’d made her piece with it long ago and had never known what it was like to be pregnant. Admittedly, she’d felt a pang of envy when her best friend had fallen pregnant, and now and then, she would see a pregnant woman or a woman with an infant and wonder what it would be like, feeling something grow inside her, but, over-all, she was happy with how her life had panned out... How much worse was it to want a child so desperately, to feel hope grow inside of you, and then have it squashed, over and over again.

‘Your father could not bear another loss, as he suffered deeply under the grief and shame your mother felt for losing so many children and not being able to carry any of them to term. It did not matter how many times he told her that she was not at fault, she did not believe him and sunk deeper into a pit of despair with every miscarriage.

‘Almost a year went by as they suffered loss after loss, when your father finally, as a last resort, decided to use the last of the _silima_ , a substance created by his father, distilled from the dew gathered from, and saturated with the light and magic of, the Two Trees of Valinor, and thought by all to be lost when his father had died, to create a life that would be able to thrive instead of wither away before it even had a chance to begin.’

Sabra caught herself hanging on every word the elf spoke; the spell woven by the soothing voice so compelling that she could almost see the magic light before her minds eye. Her rational side wanted to rebel against the highly unlikely narration, but the elf plowed forward with her vivacious story and kept her spellbound.

 ‘Your father had hidden the _silima_ after his father’s death; guarding it from evil, which would want it for its own gain. The _silima_ had value beyond compare in this world and in Valinor, for it held the light of the Two Trees, which had been destroyed by evil, thousands of years before. What better way to protect the Light of Valinor than to create a new life with it? Merge it with a living being’s cells, and simutaneously giving his wife what she so desperately craved. A strong, healthy child.’

At that last -farfetched- tidbit of information Sabra shook her head in obvious denial, trying to dislodge the small seed of cautious belief that had somehow started to take root in her heart as the elf’s story progressed. The part of her that was as caustic and disbelieving as could be, assisted in re-centering herself by offering up a biting, sceptic remark. _Magical IVF? Sure, why the fuck not... What’s next? Father Christmas being real? Give me a break... Urgh._

‘Nine months, and a difficult pregnancy later, you were born. A healthy _Peredhel_ girl. I was there to assist with the birth, and never before had I seen such a unique and beautiful babe, with your silver eyes and your luminous skin. An unmistakeable light shined from within with a brightness unseen in anything living in this world. That’s where my naming you _Elemmírë_ came from, it means ‘ _star-jewel’_ , and is a derivative of Mireth, the name your mother gave you.’

A persistent niggling at the back of her mind that felt more and more like an irritant with every second that passed, and with every time she heard the name _Mireth,_ made Sabra rub the side of her head as she desperaty tried to ignore it. _Nope. Nothing to see here. Move on._

‘Your father named you Silevriel, which means ‘ _Daughter of the_   _Silmaril_ ’ in Noldorin, his mothertongue. The _Silmarils_ were the three priceless magical jewels created by his father from the _silima_ essence. They were unrivalled in their splendour and beauty, and in your father’s eyes, he, himself, and Haleth had created you together, by joining their essences with the _silima._ Which, to him, made you another _Silmaril_. He had succeeded in something that even his father hadn’t been able to produce; a living, breathing jewel. A treasure beyond compare. Something to be protected and cherished at all cost. Even if that meant keeping your mother, and you, hidden away in his dwellings, and away from her people.’

_Well, that’s an asshole move._ She was suddenly not very taken with the male whom, according to the female elf, was supposed to be her father. _You can’t just go around and lock people up. Motherfucker._

‘And that was something that did not go down well with Haleth, as you could imagine.’ A sad smile was sent Sabra’s way, and she was sure that the elf had ‘heard’ her not so gracious thoughts. ‘She was furious at his betrayal of her trust. He had promised to love her and to honour her independence and her need for freedom, to respect her position as a Chieftain of the Haladin, but within weeks of your birth, he had manipulated her into staying with him instead of accepting that she was needed to lead her people to a new home. They were a nomadic people in those days, and the need to wander was as much present in their Chieftain as it was in them. She knew when marrying your father that there would be compromises and a lot of travelling between her temporary home and his stronghold, but she was willing to do that. And so was he. Or so she thought. The wilds of Beleriand sang to her, and she wanted so much to give in to the pull and follow her people through the planes to their new home. They needed her... But you needed her even more for survival. Thus, she was forced to stay with your father, for he would not let you out of his sight.’

A deep sigh left the elf’s body as she reminisced the past.

‘I was still so very young then, and it is so long ago, but I remember it well. Haleth started to resent him for his manipulative ways. What she did not know was that he was bound to his father’s Silmarils through an oath, and that that oath, combined with the curse that lay upon him because of his role during the First Kinslaying, which is called the Doom of Mandos, made him so afraid that you would be taken away from him, that it drove him to take extreme measures to protect the both of you. You were his greatest treasure and his most pure joy, and after losing so much in his life as a concequence of his own mistakes, he couldn’t bear to lose you, either of you. Which led him to make the decisions he did.’

‘Alright, but nothing is worth taking away another person’s freedom, no matter which excuse you use. Seems to me he was a deeply misguided, selfish person.’ Sabra interjected, feeling slightly silly for indulging the elf by going along with the story. ‘So, what was the bastard’s name?’ It hadn’t escaped her notice that the elf had been skirting around mentioning the name of her so-called father.

‘Oh, he was not a bastard. Far from it.’ The elf frowned at her with delicate eyebrows, looking confused by her use of words. ‘His name was Caranthir. And he was the fourth son of one of the mightiest and most gifted elves that ever lived. Your grandfather’s name was Faënor, son of Finwë, who was the first High King of the Elves, and one of the First Born. Through your father you are Peredhel, half-elven, and the last descendant of the noble House of Fëanor.’

_Riiiiiiiiiiiight..._ _And my grandfather on my mother’s side is Prince Philip._

‘Sooo, you’re saying I’m some kind of royally inclined elf-human hybrid? And on top of that I’m the result of a freak genetic experiment, because some selfish elven arse couldn’t keep it in his pants.’

The elf looked taken aback at her crass words, but then she nodded solemnly.

Sabra stared at her incredulously for a couple of seconds. She had trouble keeping a straight face, and ended up bursting out into laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Be Continued... Soon-ish... I hope...
> 
> Feed(back) the Muse if you like. She loves her nomnoms (and Kudos are also appreciated).
> 
> Until next time, my lovelies!
> 
> Cheers! ^_^


	30. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few answers, even more questions, and some ill news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!
> 
> Welcome back to my Middle-Earth-y Sandbox! 
> 
> I own nothing, except my OC(s), and the storyline you don't recognise. Those are mine. :)
> 
> Happy Reading!

**Chapter 28**

 

The elf-woman frowned, clearly displeased with Sabra’s disrespectful and slightly unhinged reaction. 

She was still howling with laughter three minutes later, and it was starting to sound a bit hysterical.

‘This is no laughing matter, _Elemmírë_. I fear your life is in grave danger.’ Admonished the elf in a solemn voice.

‘No shit.’ Wiping away a few stray tears of mirth, Sabra tried to calm down enough to be able to formulate an appropriate apology.

‘Sorry...’ A barely suppressed snicker escaped her. ‘But you must realise how preposterous this all sounds to me? I mean, look at me. I’m as far from what an elf looks like as one can get. I don’t possess any elven traits; no tall, slender build, no pointy ears, no sleek, long hair, no evasive way of answering questions, and I’ve been told numerous times that I’m a coldhearted bitch with a foul mouth and an even fouler disposition. As far as I know, I’m fully human. And then there’s the big, glaring fact that I am from another world, if you weren’t paying attention. Not to mention that I’m still not wholly convinced that my brain is not hallucinating this whole thing due to the fact that it’s dying from oxygen deprivation.’ Gesturing around them at the darkness, and then towards the strange, willowy female, Sabra raised her eyebrows at the elven woman. ‘I mean, look at it from where I’m standing... This is next level trippy shit where I come from. Which is Earth, by the way... No _Middle_ in there, like, anywhere. And no fucking squiggly wiggly nauseating magic stuff, either.’

The other woman sighed, exuding a patience that somehow came across as both serene and frustrated.

‘I know you have felt the magic that flows through these lands. I know that you’ve experienced the magic of the Dwarven binding ritual from Thorin Oakenshield. Why is it that you cannot accept that it was the purest manifestation of light and magic that helped create you?’

Sabra sobered completely then, a cold wave of trepidation travelling down her spine.

‘ _How_ do you know of my oath to Thorin?’ She asked, suspicion creeping into her voice. ‘ _Who are you_ , exactly?’ She never mentioned anything of the sort to the elf, and if she wasn’t a figment of Sabra’s imagination, then there was no way that the other woman could know about the oath she’d sworn. Taking a step back, she took on a defensive stance, preparing herself for an attack.

‘I am the Lady Galadriel, and I have felt each and every ripple in fate that you have caused since you came to this world. The magic that heralded your sudden appearance, was a fast and fleeting disturbance that I was unable to pinpoint, and It wasn’t until your... _oath_ to Thorin Oakenshield that I could see it was a person who was causing those ripples. Before that, there was only a strange nothing, a void, where there should have been something. It had me puzzled for a long time. You were invisible to me, until you were touched by a strong and ancient magic. Which was when you swore your oath to the Dwarf King. And even after that, I only caught glimpses of you when you were touched by magic. I did not recognise you for who you were until I received the message that you had been found when Lord Elrond sent for me. It still confounds me that I could not see you, that I still have trouble _seeing_ you.’ Narrowing her eyes, Galadriel stared at Sabra in a way that felt as if the Elf was trying to look through her, into her, somehow, but was unable to read her completely. 

_Ah... It’s the seer elf who owns that pool of sight and has that scary mrs Hyde persona..._ Remembering how the serene elf had changed into something very disturbing and powerful when she’d been offered the One Ring by Frodo, Sabra cleared her throat and took another small step back, eyeing the elf with trepidation.

‘ ** _Stop!_** ’ Galadriel cried suddenly, her voice high with panic. ‘You must _not_ think of things that are yet to come while we are connected. I _cannot_ know!’ Her horrified eyes found Sabra’s. ‘I would be tempted to steer events the way I deemed they should be, and it would set the future in a rigid corset where it does not eb and flow with the choices of Men, and Hobbit, and Dwarf, and Elf alike. It would be too easy for evil to prevail if all was believed to be set in stone... _I must not know._ ’ She whispered with such conviction that Sabra immediately shut down her train of thought.

‘Sorry...’ She offered, feeling slightly contrite for her inability to control the jumble of thoughts inside her brain. It made her decide to jump to another subject. ‘So... What you said earlier, about the magic?’

The elf nodded, making a graceful gesture, indicating for Sabra to continue.

‘Well, I think that the magic is the thing that’s making me sick.’ Galadriel opened her mouth to object, but Sabra ploughed forward, not giving the elf the chance to get a word in as she held up a hand. ‘No, hear me out before you reject my theory...’ When Galadriel closed her mouth, and gave her a reluctant nod to continue her theorising, Sabra did. ‘I’ve been feeling poorly ever since I landed in this world. First I thought it was just from the rough landing I had, because it was only head aches and dizziness, but then I started to have nose bleeds, and after that, the convulsions started. The farther we traveled from the lands inhabited by the race of men, and the closer we came to lands that, according to Balin, have been permeated by magic for eons upon eons, the more my health deteriorated.’

‘Earlier in the day, when I touched the magical...’ She searched for the correct word to describe the forcefield she’d encountered. ‘...shield that protects Lord Elrond’s valley, it invaded my entire being, and I was violently sick. And now...’ Her voice trailed off as she remembered the feeling of suffocating on her own blood as it filled her lungs. Taking a deep breath to dislodge the heavy weight she suddenly felt pressing down on her chest, she rubbed her sternum in thought. ‘Elrond touched my face, and his magic burned me from the outside in and then from the inside out, echoing through me, hollowing me out. It hurt so fucking much. It’s as if my body can’t handle being in the presence of magic...’ frowning in thought, Sabra looked out into the darkness. ‘There’s no magic in my world, so, I would make the guess that I’m having trouble adjusting. Like the body of a person who lived their whole life at sea level has trouble adjusting to the extreme heights of the mountains. It can make them sick also... It’s either that, or I’ve contracted some strange Middle Earth virus that you all carry around with you without it being a threat, but which my body has no defence against.’

A gasp came from Galadriel at her explanation, and Sabra looked up from where she’d been staring into the black void; as if the answer could be found out there, somewhere...

‘There is... _no_ magic?’ Stepping closer to Sabra, the tall elf leaned forward and looked her straight in the eyes. ‘No magic... At all?’ 

Sabra shook her head, leaning back slightly from the unsettlingly intense gaze of the elf.

‘No, no magic at all... Why?’

Galadriel straightened herself and let her gaze travel to the darkness around them as she turned in a circle.

‘No magic... No wonder I could not see you. Even the people from the race of Men of this world hold a residual trace of magic inside them, and, although most of them would not know it, or even feel it, it is like a beacon to me, while you continue to stay hidden.’ She murmured, and reached out her hand into the darkness, just as Sabra had done, earlier, looking as if she tried to touch something that wasn’t there. Then she turned to Sabra. ‘I have a suspicion of what might ail you.’ The words left her in a breathless tone.

‘Really?’ Sabra couldn’t help her sceptical tone. A small part of her was still convinced that she was hallucinating the elf. Which meant that Galadriel was a figment of her own mind. And that meant that she couldn’t know what was wrong with her, because Sabra, herself, had not a clue, apart from the theory that it had something to do with her not reacting well to the magic this world was drenched in.

‘You were so young when you vanished. We thought you had been taken and then killed by the orc pack that had ambushed your parent’s encampment when they were travelling with you. The three of you were on your way to where your mother’s people had made their camp for the summer. Both your parents survived the raid, but neither of them was ever the same.’ Galadriel sighed, sounding sad and weary. ‘They enlisted my help in finding you, but I could not find your Fëa. There was _nothing_ where before there had been such luminous vibrancy. So, I told them that you were no longer alive. They refused to believe me.’ Her gaze traveled to the darkness that surrounded them. ‘Your mother said she could _feel_ that you were still alive. Your father... Well, he did not take my news well, and went off to hunt and kill each and every orc in Beleriand, leaving your mother to lead her people through the wilds of Beleriand for years, while she coordinated her searches for you from their constantly moving camp, until they settled in the Forest of Brethil, on the hill of Amon Obel.’

‘And she was right, your mother. You were never dead. You were merely lost. To another world... Somehow you were carried to another world. A world without magic. Where you could not be found.’ Galadriel tilted her head. ‘It is no wonder I could not sense you, you were no longer in Middle-Earth... But... how did you travel between worlds? Was it dark magic?’ The elf looked Sabra up and down, searching. ‘No, I do not think so, you are not tainted. Something else caused your departure from this world.’

Not really interested at that exact moment in how she came to be here, or there, or anywhere, for that matter, Sabra pushed the question that was at the forefront of her mind, which was the more important one, because her life depended on it, literally.

‘Alright, but what does that have to do with me being allergic to magic?’

The elf raised an eyebrow.

‘Al...lergic?’

‘Yeah, um, that I react unfavourably to magic, that it makes me ill.’

‘Ah, yes. Well, I do not think your _reaction_ has anything to do with you being allergic, as you call it.’

‘You don’t? Because I beg to differ. I’m quite sure I’m dying somewhere out there,’ Sabra pointed into the darkness, ‘because of all the magic floating around in this fucking world. I’m displaying quite a few symptoms of altitude sickness, and a few others of diseases I’d rather not think about. So I’d really like to know why you don’t think it has to do with some sort of magical allergy.’

‘You are dying, you are right about that, but I do not think it is because your body isn’t used to magic... I think it is because your body is depleted of its magic, and I think it is desperately trying to pull any magic it can find into itself to replenish what was lost. That is why, today, you first pulled a large portion of the power of the wards of Imladris into your body, and, after that, proceeded to tap Lord Elrond’s magic from him when he touched you. In that way you were right about this...’ She gestured at the void, ‘...being a vacuum. Your body has been trying all along to fill the vacuum, to charge itself. It is my belief that it is the tainted, weaker magic that now flows in this world that makes you ill. You come from a time when the world and its magic were stronger, and younger.’ Galadriel tapped her chin with her index finger in thought. ‘The longer your body starves for suitable replenishment, the weaker you become. I fear that your Elven Fëa is fading, _Elemmírë_ , and if we are not quick to heal you, you will most certainly die. One half can’t live without the other.’

Frowning, Sabra addressed the discrepancy that niggled at the back of her mind.

‘Okay.’ She drew out the word, sounding like the trollish sceptic she was. ‘But how do you explain that I have lived in a world without magic for thirty-eight years and not suffered any of the symptoms I have now?’ She fell silent for a second. Then said, ‘Not counting the seizures I suffered from when I was a toddler.’ When Galadriel looked upon her with interest at that tidbit of information, she shrugged and elaborated. ‘I grew out of it. They were a part of my life for only a few months, up until maybe a year, and then they disappeared.’

A thoughtful humming sound escaped the elf, as she looked at the void again.

‘So, you have been ill before. Probably also from depletion... But how did you become so drained? And why did it not affect you as much when you were younger?’ It was as if Galadriel had forgotten Sabra was even there, because she stayed silent for a long time.

Suddenly the elf looked back at Sabra, seemingly startled by her own conclusions.

‘Of course. That must be it’ She exclaimed breathlessly, as her eyes widened. 

Sabra sighed, crossing her arms in front of her chest. This was getting weirder by the second. But, as she hadn’t any better theories at the moment, she played along.

‘Any time you want to let me in on the secret would be great, thanks. It’s not like I’m dying or anything…’

‘I always looked for an outside cause to explain your disappearance. But, what if it was not caused by external forces?’ Galadriel questioned while she started walking purposely in a completely random direction.

Sabra had no choice but to follow if she wanted answers. For as far as the confounding elf would ever answer her questions. Straightforward she was not.

‘Yeah, um, you lost me there…’ 

‘You are the grand-daughter of the most powerful elf that ever lived, the great-granddaughter of one of the first-born elves, and the daughter of an elf who was born and has dwelled under the light of the Two Trees, in Valinor; an elf who was powerful enough to use their essence to create a new life. It would not be unusual for you to have inherited certain traits, in spite of your mother being from the race of men.’

Well, if that last bit didn’t sound just a bit condescending, then Sabra didn’t know what did. Apparently, being prejudiced against a different race wasn’t something that was solely typical for the other races of Middle Earth. Even the elves weren’t immune when it came to a slight bias regarding mixed race individuals. Especially if their precious elven blood had been mixed with ‘inferior’ genes. _pricks._

‘Oh, I’m sorry, does my so-called mixed parentage offend your sensibilities?’ The biting sarcasm in her tone did not escape the elf’s attention.

Galadriel frowned at her uncomprehendingly as she halted her brisk walk.

‘Not at all. I was only pointing out that your ancestors were so powerful, and that the light that was used to pull you into existence consisted of such pure energy and power, that it would not surprise me when your human lineage from your mother’s side did nothing to diminish the potency of the magic that lives inside you… lived inside you.’

The answer had Sabra stand down a little.

‘Oh.’ If the sheepish sound was mirrored by the expression on her face, she wouldn’t be surprised. _Right, think before speaking._

The delighted giggle of a child sounded from behind her, and Sabra turned as if bitten. Her hand shooting out to grab onto the slight breeze flowing past it, but clenching around nothing but air. Just like the other times, there was nothing to be seen. Another giggle drifted up to her ears.

‘ ** _Motherfucker!_** ’ She exclaimed in frustration.

‘What was that?’ Galadriel asked, sounding slightly alarmed as she searched the darkness around them.

‘Fuck if I know.’ Sabra answered, craning her neck to see if she could discern any lights in the distance. _Nothing. Fuck…_ ‘Though, it does put me at ease a bit that you heard that, too… I’m now tentatively operating under the assumption that you’re not a figment of my imagination, of course.’ She added.

‘Of course.’ Was that really dry sarcasm she heard in Galadriel’s voice? Sheesh, she was rubbing off on people, it seemed.

‘The last two times I heard that laugh, there were far away lights accompanying it. But I see nothing, now.’ Sabra explained.

After looking at her sharply, Galadriel turned in a full circle, her gaze seemingly searching the horizon, if there had been a horizon to search, of course.

‘If my suspicions are correct, then you caused your own disappearance from this world, and your own reappearance.’ She murmured, almost as if only speaking to herself. Looking back at Sabra, Galadriel raised her voice to address her directly. ‘You traveled through time and space, and between worlds. Not once, but twice. The power needed for such a feat is unfathomable. It does not surprise me that you are so incredibly depleted. What does surprise me, is that the drain on your magic hasn’t killed you instantly upon your arrival, either in the other world, or in this one, and that you have been able to exist and travel in this world for as long as you have without succumbing to the stress the depletion put on your body.’

‘Which means?’

‘Which means that you are an extraordinarily hardy creature, and that there is more to this darkness we find ourselves in than meets the eye... In spite of your body clinging to life, your Fëa seems to be non-existent by this point, and you seem to be completely depleted of magic. So, why can I not _sense_ you? There should be some trace of your human essence for me to locate, but there is nothing. It is as if you are...’ She seemed to search for a word to describe the circumstances. ‘... as if you are _hidden_ from me, not just in the corporeal world, but also here. Everywhere I look, there is this void, this nothingness where your Fëa should be, where your magic should manifest itself... Even now, as I am connected to you, I can only hear your thoughts sporadically, and the only thing visible to me is this...’ Galadriel gestured at Sabra. ‘... projection of your being, which I can see with my mind’s eye, but cannot sense with my magic, it is as if it is an empty shell.’ A frown graced her features when she stepped closer to Sabra and let her gaze travel over Sabra’s face. ‘It is uncanny how detailed it is. Not just a shadow of your physical appearance, but a full-fledged, completely fleshed out spiritual version of your corporeal self... You should not be able to do this while being so drained. You should present as a spectre-like whisp of light with how broken your body and spirit are...’ Again, she gave their surroundings a sharp glance, as if trying to catch an inconsistency in the fabric of darkness. ‘This entire occurrence is littered with highly improbable contradictions.’

The quiet voice of a teenage girl started to sing a song in a language Sabra did not understand, but which sounded familiar somehow, the soothing tones seamlessly blending with the repeating sounds of the words. Allowing her gaze to flit to and fro, she tried to pinpoint where the song was coming from.

Galadriel tilted her head as she listened, her expression one of remembrance and sadness.

‘That is the song your mother used to sing to you when you were a mere babe and would not sleep.’ Her attention focused on Sabra again. ‘How is it that you remember it?’

‘What? This isn’t me. I don’t know this song.’ Sabra lied. Well, okay, not ‘lied’ exactly. She didn’t _really_ know the song, but she couldn’t say that it didn’t resonate within her soul; somehow it touched on long buried feelings of contentment and love. Rubbing her sternum again, she cleared her throat. ‘I don’t feel so good.’ A wave of dizziness rolled through her. 

Then, around them, a sprinkle of the brightest stars burst through the darkness, almost like fireworks; their blueish silver light illuminating Sabra and Galadriel for a few seconds before extinguishing. A delighted laugh tinkled from the darkness. If Sabra didn’t know any better, she’d have said that it was her own laugh, only lighter and more carefree than hers had ever been.

‘The **_fuck_**?!’ Sabra’s heartfelt expletive startled Galadriel from her focus on the tiny flicker of light she’d caught in her hand.

She looked up at Sabra, an expression of awe on her face.

‘It is a shield.’ She breathed.

_Say what now?!_

‘What is a _what_?’ Sabra asked, fearing that the elf had lost her marbles. _How the fuck is that sparkle a shield?!_

‘The darkness. It is not a void, it is a cloak.’ Galadriel looked back at the slowly extinguishing light in her hand. It almost resembled the size of a firefly. ‘It is a shield between the magic inside you and the world outside. In your case, a shield between your magic and a world without magic. When you, as a toddler, found yourself in a world devoid of magic, you must have instinctively pulled up a protection around your magical core; a shield between it and your new reality; both to protect the magic from siphoning away from your Fëa into the vacuum that it had found itself in, and, in lesser extent, yourself from being detected as an abnormality.’ 

Another burst of stars exploded from above them, this time accompanied by a _‘Fucking hell!’_ from both Sabra and the other voice that sounded so much like hers, overlaid over each other.

Now thoroughly creeped out, Sabra turned in a circle again, breathing haltingly. 

‘ _Motherfucker_! Show yourself!’ She cried into the dark, and her shout was immediately echoed by dozens of other, but the same, voices, until it slowly became fainter and then faded away. A cold shiver of trepidation traveled down her spine.

Galadriel closed her hand around the dimmed spark and closed her eyes in concentration. Then, after a few seconds, she opened them again, and turned her attention to Sabra, opening her hand and showing her the rekindled light.

‘These sparks, they are your magic, trying to break free from its shell. Your reappearance in this world has awakened it from its slumber. I was wrong about your body trying to pull magic into itself to replace the magic it had lost; it is the other way around, your magic is trying to reach out to the magic in this world, pulling on it, because it has recognised it on a base level. But the shield you erected so long ago has grown too strong, becoming a integral part of you, and it prohibits your magic from reaching its target. Which caused it, and the magic of this world to wreak havoc on your body. The outside magic gravitates towards your magic too violently because there is no magic present beyond the shield to stop any outside force from entering you. Usually, our magic and the magic of others, and of the land, border on each other, and interact with each other, but it never happens that one magic breaches the aura of the other, unless it is with resolute intent, which mostly is during a fight between magic users, but that hasn’t happened in this world for an age or more.’ Another rain of sparks fell down around them. The elf sighed sadly when her pained, ancient eyes gazed into Sabra’s. ‘The shield, it is starting to collapse under the pressure of your magic, but I am afraid it will take too long. Your body will not be able to take the strain of this assault of the two opposing magics for much longer. It has become too weak. I am sorry.’

Sabra swallowed laboriously, her mouth suddenly feeling dry as a desert. That did not sound good. At all.

Until that moment, she’d had a sliver of hope that Galadriel would have a ready to go plan in place to save her. It looked like she had been mistaken on that account. _Fuck..._ She felt her temper rising when the elf observed her with a quiet sorrow after dropping that bomb on her.

‘What are you saying? That there is _nothing_ you can do? I thought you were supposed to be this immensely powerful being who can allegedly move mountains if she is so inclined. It should be easy as pie for you to help me!’

‘Your body is too far gone; it is eating itself from the inside out. When it comes to the physical body, there is only so much that I can do.’ Galadriel’s words were soft and apologetic. ‘I am truly sorry.’

‘This is **_unacceptable_**!’ Sabra roared, fiery sparks surrounding her. ‘Elrond was able to save Frodo Baggins from a sword wound that had been caused by one of the Nazgul for fucks sake! It had almost turned him into a wraith, and Elrond was still able to pull him back from that abyss!... And stop with that fucking wincing when I disclose some fucking piece of the future you’re not supposed to know yet. That fucking wound has no influence on any outcome whatsoever. It just plagues Frodo for the rest of his life. He’d be better off without it.’ She growled as she advanced on the elf. ‘This is _not_ the end for me. I don’t believe you!’ 

Galadriel only shook her head and closed her eyes, hanging her head in defeat.

‘I am sorry.’ She whispered, brokenly. ‘I cannot save you.’

‘ ** _NO_** _!_ That is _BULL! SHIT!_ ’ A righteous fury burned inside Sabra. She felt unable to accept what she’d just been told. ‘What fucking good are you, poking around in my fucking mind if you can’t even contribute anything useful?!’ The sparks around her grew to blueish silver flames, leaking like liquid to the floor, when her temper flared. ‘Get out of my fucking head.’

The other woman took a hesitant step back at the sight of Sabra’s rage.

‘I don’t think...’

Not inclined to listen to anything else that the elf had to say, Sabra threw out her arm towards Galadriel.

‘ ** _LEAVE!_** ’ The roar of her layered voices echoed through the dark cavern as a crack of thunder, accompanied by a water-like wave of light, and pushed the elf several yards away from her before she completely vanished from Sabra’s sight, a flabbergasted expression gracing her face just before her disappearance.

The quick exit of the elf did nothing to quench the rage, though. Frustration, and anger, and fear, and sorrow, and an all-consuming _fury_ swirled into a dangerously explosive cocktail, as she screamed into the void in impotent desperation. Another thunderous crack echoed around her, and, suddenly, a web of light spidered outwards from where her feet touched the ‘floor’. The cracks widened with every gasping breath she took.

Another scream was torn from her throat, this time it was pure fear that overtook her, when pure light exploded from the spiderweb cracks, taking over her consciousness, and greedily gobbling up everything she’d ever been. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> If you liked, please take a few seconds more and leave me some feedback, even a 'hey there' is enough, and/or some kudos. Let me know that I'm not talking to a void.
> 
> Cheers! :D


	31. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Two updates in two days! I'm on a roll! ;)
> 
> Here's 4000+ words, just for you, my lovely readers!
> 
> Happy reading! 
> 
> XOXO
> 
> Ps: trigger warning pertaining icky things and the macabre that surrounds death.

**Chapter 29**

 

She became _unmade_. That word came the closest to describe the acute and potent agony of the waves of burning destruction that flooded her being. 

The forces that pulled apart her cells on a molecular level, obliterating them from existence, were timeless and immense. And she felt each and every single scorching millisecond of it. Millennia of excruciating torment were compressed into a single second, and then stretched until eons passed as slow as a snail’s pace. The blaze of power consumed her, until there was nothing left to feel.

There was no concept of time in the place without pain. It could have been seconds since the scorching of her being, or it could have been years, but, eventually, she found herself floating in a sea of twilight, eyes half closed, and mind blissfully silent. The waters that surrounded her were pleasantly warm, and the languid feeling of contentment replacing the pain and suffering of before, lulled her into a state of peace.

As she teetered precariously on the edge of the abyss where the waters of twilight plummeted down to infinity, where darkness and light were the same, and where there was no future, no present, and no past, no struggle, and _no pain_ , the temptation to just give in, to let go and throw herself over the edge of oblivion, was greater than anything she’d ever encountered. It called to her, and she felt an almost desperate longing to answer the call.

If only it hadn’t been for that gnawing, niggling feeling that made itself known in the pit of her stomach -or, that was what it would have felt like if she still had a physical body to feel things with-, then she wouldn’t have hesitated. 

Where the feeling came from, she didn’t know, but it persevered none the less. And it halted her progress, right on the edge between existence and eternal silence. 

Suddenly, a thin tether of lapis lazuli snaked its way out of the twilight, wrapping around her wrist, winding its way up her arm and then around her neck, up into her mouth, and down her throat. She hacked and retched to dislodge the infernal thing that just kept going, and then somehow wrapped itself around the blazing source of light that she only now realised was located in the core of her being. Was that... her _Fëa_? Her eyes widened in surprise as she felt the strange warm glow it radiated where before there had only been emptiness.

The tether squeezed together around the light, causing it to send a powerful pulse outwards. It left her gasping and forced her to sit up, which disturbed her buoyancy. She went under in the water-like twilight, only to quickly surface again, kicking her legs as she spluttered, the peculiar tether now gone from her being. It left her feeling strangely bereft. She frowned.

_Wait_... 

The niggling feeling had increased substantially.

_There is... something_...

She’d forgotten... something... 

_Something... important?_

A promise?

No.

_A vow_...

_To a King_.

She had sworn an _oath_.

She had given her word. 

She had bound herself through magic.

A magic the colour of Lapis Lazuli.

_Thorin!_

The sudden, compelling need to return from the abyss rekindled the blazing flame of power inside her, and even before her decision had formed completely, the endless suffering returned. She fought the increasing pull to oblivion that the torturous fire induced. It would be so easy to let go... End the suffering...

_No_!

An inferno with the heat of a thousand suns ravaged her once again, but she refused to succumb. Hanging on by the skin of her teeth, she clawed her way back from the edge. She became raw, and bleeding, and charred. Determination built inside her, right beside the fire that burned through her, until they became one and the same, feeding each other, feeding _on_ each other. Nothing worth anything ever came without a price. So, she lived through the searing pain, rode it like a wave, as the powerful heat rebuilt everything she once was, and everything she could be.

 

In the end, she was _remade._

 

Then, suddenly, there was a male voice invading her senses; it sounded angry, and was shouting loudly. A more soothing male voice answered the first voice, and was being backed up by a female voice. The words ebbed and flowed, and were warbled and distorted, as if she heard them from under water.

Slowly, her consciousness returned to her body. It was a completely weird sensation. Her body felt cold, and heavy; her muscles unable to move, and somehow... lifeless. 

It was so quiet. At first, she thought the silence came from somewhere outside herself, but then she realised the silence came from within. Why was her body so quiet? As she wondered this, it suddenly occurred to her that it was because there was no breath, no heartbeat, no blood circulation. Her eyesight was abominable, her eyes closed to tiny slits, and her gaze restricted to staring upward through her lashes. Her eyes felt scratchy and dry, and all she could discern was the flickers of dancing firelight on the ceiling of the room she found herself in.

_Huh, so this is what being in a dead body feels like..._ Sabra felt strangely detached from the realisation that she was somehow alive and dead at the same time. It should have weirded her out more than it did. She had to be in some kind of shock...

Time to reminisce any longer on the feeling wasn’t possible, because on the heels of her consciousness returning to her body came the hellish, blazing heat that had scorched her metaphysical self to a cinder. This time not only burning through her soul, but also singeing her body from the top of her head to the tips of her fingers and toes; invading her being to even the tiniest of veins. And there was nothing she could do but ride it out; her body laying heavy and unresponsive to the commands that fired from her pain receptors to her brain.

Through the haze of torturing pain and aches, Sabra could suddenly make out whom one of the voices in the room belonged to. The one shouting belonged Thorin. Man, he sounded so pissed off. The roar of his voice vibrated through her. The vibrations somehow soothing the inferno that twisted its way through her veins.

It wasn’t long before the raised voices started to get on her nerves, though. How could they be fighting while she was in agony?! Couldn’t they do anything to help her?

_Oh... right... they probably think I’m dead_. 

Which she had been. For a while, at least... But, she came back... Hard to kill... Like a cockroach... 

In spite of the pain she was in, she felt a bubble of manic laughter work its way up through her body; only to die out when said body did not respond correctly to her macabre humour. It didn’t do shit. It just lay there, bloody useless, while she was trapped inside. _Fuck..._

The raging inferno that burned through her did not decrease as time wore on. She became desperate for it to stop, and fought it with all she had, but it was to no avail. A pulse of pain and fire had taken over her lifeless body, and all she could do was lay there, and listen to that infernal jabbering of the Dwarf King and the other two people in the room. The voices had lost their soothing tones and vibration a while ago as the argument became more heated, and Sabra became increasingly annoyed by the endless blathering. All that bleating didn’t do anything but increase her suffering tenfold.

A building annoyance bled into anger, and then rage, and, somehow, that rage poured into her body, pushing the pounding fire outward, before sucking it back in, and... _assimilating_ it.

And that’s when she became aware. Of how the pulsing of her rage suddenly found another pulse that started to beat in time with it. First one small, stuttering beat... then another, this one stronger than the first... then three... four... five, six, seven.

With the pounding of her heart, her body became aware of its need for oxygen, and she sucked in a loud, wheezing breath as she sat up, turning to her hands and knees as she fought to get as much sweet, _sweet_ air inside of her lungs as possible.

‘ _Motherfucker! That..._ ** _hurts!_** ’ She croaked on an exhale, followed by an intake of breath. 

‘Can you _please...’_ another wheezing breath, _‘please,_ ** _stop_** that bloody obnoxious quacking, you _blathering_ wankers!’ A cough escaped her on the last word. And then she was sucking in air again.

Her gaze fell to her hands, where they were bunching the sheets of the bed she was on. They were severely discoloured, but slowly her nails changed colour; from a deep, dark blue, to purple, to pink.

‘Heh, cool.’ She croaked, lifting her hand to take a closer look, turning it this way and that. The veins inside her palm were also darkly coloured, as were the ones on the underside of her forearms. Slowly, but surely, those, too, took on a much healthier colour, until there was only unblemished, creamy skin left. Well, creamy where there weren’t any tattoos colouring the skin, that was.

‘Wow, that was a fucking weird experience. One I’d rather never repeat again.’ was all she could hoarsely say before a nervous snicker made its way out of her throat.

Looking up at the three quiet, dumbstruck, wide-eyed people standing at the foot of her bed, she decided that they could wait a bit longer, as they did not look any worse for the wear, and mentally dismissed them. She had a more important mission. 

Searchingly, she scanned the room, until her eye fell on a carafe, which was conveniently located on the bedside table. Next to it, there was a small bowl, halfway filled with water. Ah, just what the doctor ordered. 

Crawling towards the headboard of the bed, Sabra sat back on her heels and grabbed the bowl, bringing the water to her lips and drinking greedily. She was truly parched. 

As the blissfully cool water flowed down to her stomach, she could almost feel how her body sucked it up like a sponge that had been left out in the sun for too long. 

After a few more gulps, she forced herself to stop drinking; knowing that drinking too much water at once after being dehydrated could have an averse effect on the body, leading to vomiting and an even worse dehydration.

She let out a contented sigh as she put the small bowl back next to the carafe, and turned to the two Elves and the Dwarf; all three of whom were still frozen in shock.

Sabra licked her lips and cleared her throat.

‘Sooo... ‘sup?’ Popping the p, she wrinkled her nose in reaction to the sickly sweet cloying scent that permeated the air, and waited for a reaction. 

Any reaction.

‘You are dead.’ Thorin breathed when he was the first of the three to break from his stupefaction.

Alright, not that reaction.

‘No, I’m not.’ She managed to sound slightly insulted.

‘You have been dead for two days.’ His voice an accusation now.

Sabra’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

‘Really?’ It couldn’t have been that long, could it? Though that would explain the blood discolouration on her fingers and arms. All the blood in her body, as it had been laid out on a bed, had sunken down to the lowest parts after her circulation had ceased; all thanks to gravity. After which it coagulated where it sat. That usually didn’t happen until quite a few hours after death.

How she even had a working respiratory and circulatory system was a mystery to her. There must have been some seriously powerful supernatural mumbo jumbo going on inside her for her body to bounce back from two days of death so ‘easily’.

Speaking of death... 

‘Um, can anyone please open a window or something? It fucking reeks in here...’ She followed her nose; sniffing her armpit. And almost threw up over herself. ‘Oh, gods, that’s embarrassing.’ A groan escaped her when it dawned on her that she may not be dead anymore, but the oily smell of it still clung to her skin. 

Then, she noticed the white, sleeveless, elaborately embroidered and gem decorated nightgown-like maxi-dress she was wearing. She grabbed a handful of the copious amount of cloth it contained, and accusingly held it up towards Thorin. ‘What the _fuck_ is this? _Where_ are my clothes?!

Galadriel stepped forward and addressed her.

‘It is a traditional elvish burial shift. We were preparing you for your funeral.’ Her voice was back to being low and soothing. 

Sabra was having none of it.

‘Excuse you? Funeral arrangements my arse. You were arguing and shouting amongst yourselves. It was loud enough to grate on my already raw nerves. Fuckin’ hell.’ She rubbed her temples with her fingers as residual surges of fire and pain ebbed and flowed through her body. There was no doubt about it, her whole body was reawakening after a long time of disuse.

Stretching her arms out above her head, she hollowed her back and leaned her head backwards before bowing forward and touching her chest with her chin, effectively stretching the stiff muscles of her back, neck and torso. 

‘You are _dead_.’ The finality in Thorin’s words had her turning her attention back to him. A mighty scowl darkened his features. ‘This is _not_ possible. _Sabra_ is dead.’ He muttered to himself. Then, his eyes found hers and he advanced on her. ‘Who are you? You cannot be her... _What_ are you?’ 

Sabra recoiled from him when he drew a long dagger from somewhere on his person and pointed it at her.

‘What the _fuck?!_ Dude!’ She exclaimed. ‘Put that thing away before you hurt someone!’

‘No! This is possession! Leave her body, you wraith! Go back to whichever hellish realm you came from!’ 

Feeling her temper flare, Sabra hopped from the bed and grabbed the leather vambraced wrist of the hand that held the dagger. She bared her teeth at Thorin as she pushed the sharp weapon away from where it had swung towards her throat.

‘Oh. My. Gods! Deliver me from superstitious troglodyte Dwarves!... I did not burn inside an all-consuming inferno for eons upon eons and then clawed my way back to life from where I was balancing on the abyss of oblivion just for you to put me right back there, Thorin Oakenshield!’ She admonished the Dwarf King through clenched teeth. ‘I swore an _oath_ to you. I _bound_ myself to you _and_ your House. And I _will_ see this quest through... If even _death_ couldn’t stop me, what chance do you think _you_ have, you bloody obstinate dwarf?’ Her scowl was a great as his when she glared at him, not breaking their eye contact. The warm pulse of her... _Fëa?..._ roared to life in her chest, and she could see the flare of illumination of her silver-grey eyes reflected in his blue ones. The glow was only present for a fraction of a second, but she saw it none-the-less, and so did he.

Thorin lowered his dagger further, and took a step back, his expression wary.

‘Your eyes...’

‘Yeah... What the _fuck_ was that?’ Sabra brusquely turned to where Galadriel and Elrond had been following the exchange between Thorin and her with an intense focus.

Elrond cleared his throat and stepped forward.

‘That was the flare of your magic.’ His simple explanation could use some clarification. He kept mum on that subject, though, and held out his hand to Sabra. ‘If I may?’

Sabra took a step back, remembering what had happened when he’d touched her a few days earlier.

‘Uh, no, I don’t think so.’ Holding her hands up apologetically, she shook her head. ‘I don’t want a repeat of whatever happened last time.’

‘Do not be afraid.’ Galadriel butted into the conversation. ‘His touch will not hurt you this time.’

The elf received a venomous glare from Sabra.

‘Oh yeah? And what do you know? The last time I saw you, you told me I was done for. _Say sayonara to your life, Sabra, because your body has given up._ Well, surprise! I’m back!... There is nothing you could say that I would believe by this point!’ She spat viciously.

‘That is because your body _had_ given up. There is not a force in this world that could have saved you, _Elemmírë._ Two days ago, you died. We were all there when you stopped breathing. When your heart stopped, and when your spirit left your body behind.’ The deep sorrow in Galadriel's voice stopped her short. The elf really did sound sincere.

‘Then... How am I even here? How was I able to return?’ There were so many unanswered questions floating around in her mind, it was maddening.

‘The power of your Fëa has proven to be stronger than the pull of death. We have known of elves who were brought back to life, or reborn, by the will of the Valar, but never of one who accomplished such a feat on their own. It is extraordinary.’ Lord Elrond said, sounding both worried, and puzzled.

‘ _Fëa?_ ’ Interrupted Thorin’s shocked voice the three-way conversation. ‘You mean to say that she is an _Elf_?!’ The disgust in his tone as he spat out the last word was almost palpable. 

Sabra closed her eyes in annoyance, praying for patience to whatever power was out there. _Fucking hell. Not this prejudiced bull-shit again!_ She was about to go off on the Dwarf when Galadriel stepped in.

‘We do not know what she is...’ This statement made Sabra send a sharp look to the two Elves, and she opened her mouth to question the remark, but Galadriel did not give her the chance to speak. ‘We used to believe her a Peredhel, a Half-Elven. Her father was the Elf Lord Caranthir the Dark, of the House of Fëanor, Lord of Tharghelion; her mother the Lady Haleth, Chieftain of the Haladin, also known as Haleth the Hunter. It was known to only a select few, that Mireth, as we knew Sabra then, was created with the help of the Light of the Two Trees of Valinor, making her a living Silmaril. Myself and Lord Elrond are the last of those initiated few who know about the creation of this Fourth Silmaril. She started out as part Elven, part Human, and, what we thought, part Jewel. But now... We can only say that she is...’ The Elf hesitated, and searched for the right word as her faraway gaze glanced over to Sabra, once again giving her the impression that the woman was trying to look into her. Then her sight sharpened again, focusing on Sabra’s person for real this time. ‘... Other...’ she finished her sentence ominously.

‘Other? What do you mean, I’m... _Other_?’ Sabra had only just started to maybe, cautiously, believe that she might have Elven blood mixed into her human physiology, and now the rules had been changed on her again?! The Elves suddenly dubbing her ‘ _Other’..._ ‘What the _fuck_ does that even mean?!’

Galadriel took it upon herself to elucidate the term.

‘It means that you have traveled in space and time, and between worlds, not once, but twice in your short life, without it draining your magical core, and both times you have survived to tell the tale. Something that none of even the mightiest of elves have ever accomplished. It means that as a mere toddler, you were able to hold onto your magic in the vacuum of a world devoid of any trace of it. It means that in this world, you have fought _Death_ , and you have emerged _victorious_. It means that after your body had lain lifeless for two days, your Fëa still returned to its seat inside it, and you came back to us, back to life. It means that when I look into you, I _know_ that there is magic, I _know_ that your Fëa shines bright as it ever has, but I cannot _see_ it, your power is _still_ hidden from me. Even now that I know that the shield that held your magic prisoner has collapsed, I only sense something akin to an ordinary, powerless Peredhel who leans more to her Human side than her Elven one... but, I _know_ that that is not the truth... You are not Human. You are not Elven. You are not Peredhel. Your Fëa does not exist as an Elven Fëa. It carries inside it the last of the Light of Valinor; it _is_ the Fourth Silmaril, and it, together with your magic, is inextricably bound to your physical self, proven by its return to your body even after you had been dead for days... You are unique in this universe. There never was one such as you before you came to be, and there will not be one after you have departed this realm of existence. Thus, you are _Other.’_

Sabra swallowed thickly as she gazed into the ancient, compassionate eyes of the female Elf. Then, she took a deep, cleansing breath, pushing away the shocking revelations to the back of her mind. She’d ponder on those later, when her mind wasn’t such a confounded mess.

‘Fine.’ She said resolutely, and squared her shoulders. ‘Now, I’d like to wash away the stink of death from my skin, it really is dreadful. If one of you could point me in the direction of a bathroom, bath house, or something equal, I’d be very grateful.’ Bunching up the too long dress in her hands, she hoisted it up so she could walk without having to be afraid to faceplant into the stone floor.

Lord Elrond nodded his head in understanding, and gestured for her to follow him.

‘The baths are only a short stroll down the hallway.’ He said.

When she made to follow him, Sabra discovered that she was still a bit wobbly on her legs after her ordeal. Most of the adrenaline that had flooded her system when she’d awoken had worn off, and she swayed backwards dangerously.

A strong hand wrapped itself around her bare upper arm and helped her to steady herself. Somehow, she suddenly tasted a strangely familiar dormant magic on the back of her tongue. It tasted like... Lapis Lazuli? Did Lapis Lazuli even have a taste? _The fuck?_

She looked to the side and found Thorin standing next to her, gazing down at her with a deeply weighted, dark blue gaze.

‘Thanks.’ She said quietly.

The only thing she received in return was a low hum. Thorin released her arm as soon as she found her footing again, quickly stepping away from her.

She sighed. Great, this thing with Thorin really was one step forward, two steps back. Talk about frustrating. No time to linger on it, though. She’d come back to it later; after she’d taken a bath. 

As she left Galadriel and Thorin behind, and followed Lord Elrond out of the room, she passed a window in the corridor; noticing that they were quite high up above the valley. The window granted her beautiful views over the surrounding mountains with their bright green trees and sparkling silver waterfalls. 

Between one step and the next, she distractedly wondered how far away she was from the platform which the Company of Thorin Oakenshield had first arrived on. That had been quite a ways down into the valley. 

She picked up her foot in the hallway that led to the baths, and when she put it down, it was on the stone platform at the beginning of the Valley of Imladris. Stumbling forward from the sudden shift in her surroundings, Sabra righted herself quickly, and turned a full circle; blinking in disbelief and confusion.

‘What. _The_ _fuck_. Just happened?!’ The whisper escaped her only seconds before she was surrounded by three fierce looking Elven guards; the sharp, pointy ends of their spears coming dangerously close to tearing into the bodice of her dress. 

‘ _Shit._ ’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a ride... O.o
> 
> I love talking to you guys and gals, and your feedback keeps me writing (just look at how fast I updated this time! I still can't believe it! :D ); so, leave me a note if you want, or hit me up with a kudos. Those two things are the fuel to my creative engine. I kid you not. :)
> 
> Cheers!


	32. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovelies!
> 
> Here I am again, with yet another update. Almost 6500 words this time... Yay! :D
> 
> Warning: Here be smut. :P (this is my second time, ever, writing smut, so, be gentle with me ;) )

**Chapter 30**

 

Dropping the hem of her dress and putting her hands up into the air, Sabra tried to shuffle sideways, out of the reach of those lethal looking spears. Better to not have a skewer happy elf at one’s back... 

Too bad none of the elves were cooperating with her train of thought. As one, they took a threatening step forward, raising their spears toward her throat. She froze. One of the fuckers nicked her skin, and she could feel a small bead of blood trickle down to her clavicle.

‘Alright. No moving. Got it.’ She mumbled. Raising her voice, she addressed the elves, ‘There’s no need to be so aggressive, lads. I mean you no harm. I’m with the Company of Thorin Oakenshield.’

Apparently, mentioning that name cut her some slack, because all three elves lowered their weapons slightly, and one of them gave another a command in a language Sabra didn’t understand. The elf who received the command lowered his spear, and ran towards the stairs that led up to a higher level. 

Okay, if she’d understood the body-language right, he had just been sent away to fetch someone more in charge than the elf who had given the command. Good.

Lowering her arms, Sabra groaned in frustration, and started walking into the direction which the two remaining elves pushed her towards with their weapons.

‘All I wanted was a flippin’ _bath_.’ She bemoaned, and the ground underneath her feet disappeared. 

A startled cry escaped her just before she face-planted into a body of warm water. 

For a second her mind told her that she was back in the sea of twilight, and panic bubbled up in her throat. Then her knees hit the bottom of the water-filled basin she had plunged into, and she pushed herself up with her feet, breaking through the surface of the water, coughing and spluttering. Thankfully, the water only came up to her ribs when her feet found purchase on the bottom of the... pool?

Sabra rubbed the water from her eyes and looked up; only to meet Lord Elrond’s surprised gaze from where he stood in a doorway, his hand still on the door-handle. The elf turned to look behind him, down the hallway, and then turned back to her, eyebrows raised in puzzlement.

‘I could have sworn you were behind me not two seconds ago...’

Pushing her wet hair back from her forehead, she waded to the side of what she now understood to be some sort of natural bathing pool.

‘I’m having trouble staying in one place.’ She said, feeling very unamused. _Well, that’s the fucking understatement of the year._

Just as Lord Elrond made to step forward, he was pushed aside by Thorin, who barrelled into the room with a wild look in his eyes and his unsheathed elven sword gripped tightly in his hand. So tightly even, that his knuckles were visibly white from the strain.

Frowning, Sabra looked up at the irate Dwarf.

‘What the hell are you doing?!’

‘I heard you scream...’ His eyes roved over her form; his stance slightly relaxing when he saw she was unhurt. Until his gaze landed on the recently nicked skin of her neck, just underneath her ear, by the curve of her jaw.

His sword clanged on the floor when he landed on his knees on the side of the pool. He’d moved so fast she almost didn’t see it. His hands gently cradled her face and he gingerly tilted her head to the side to study the tiny wound. Once again, she could somehow taste his dormant magic. It tingled on her tongue this time. She’d have to ask Galadriel about the strange ability she’d attained together with the fucking annoying ability to instantly throw herself haphazardly from one corner of Rivendell to another. 

After touching the skin underneath the wound on her neck with his fingers, Thorin pulled his hand back. His fingers were bloody.

_Oh_... apparently the nick was a bit more serious than she’d thought.

‘ _Who_ cut you?!’ The Dwarf King growled; his nostrils flaring as he glared at the blood on his fingers.

Sabra could see rage building in his eyes. It flummoxed her. _Why is he so angry?_ It wasn’t like she hadn’t been hurt worse, before this day. This time it was just a tiny cut.

‘It’s nothing, only a small misunderstanding with a couple of elven guards in the valley below. I’m alright.’

‘You were down in the Valley?’ Elrond questioned from his position by the doorway.

Looking past Thorin’s kneeling form, she addressed the Elven Lord.

‘Ah, yes, I somehow... transported myself there, just before I plunged myself into this pool. You might want to check up on your guards. I think I gave them quite a fright.’

Sending her a weighty look, he nodded.

‘I shall do that. If you would wait here, and try not to ‘trans...port’ yourself again, I will send a maid to tend to you and your bath. After you have finished, we will talk to the Lady Galadriel about your emerging... _ability_.’

‘Thank you... I’ll tr-’ 

‘ _No_.’

Turning to Thorin, Sabra raised her eyebrows in surprise at his blunt refusal in her stead. _What?_

‘I will tend to her.’ 

_Wait... What?_ Her gaze shot to his as she frowned in confusion. His eyes feverishly burned into hers. He looked almost crazed. _What the fuck is going on?_

Elrond’s shocked voice reached her ears.

‘My Lord Thorin, that is highly inappro-’

_‘I said:_ ** _I_** will tend to her. She is _my_ kin.’ Thorin bit out between clenched teeth, his tone final.

Apparently, Elrond knew when not to push the stubborn Dwarf King, and bowed out of the room. Still, he managed to sound very scandalised as he conceded to Thorin’s ‘wish’.

‘As you wish... I will send someone around with clean clothes and a few towels.’

‘Thank you.’ 

That did not sound grateful at all. It sounded more like a ‘ _fuck you_ ’ dismissal to Sabra.

When the door had closed behind Lord Elrond, she addressed Thorin.

‘That was rude.’ She kinda liked the tall Elf Lord, he didn’t come over as being as stuck up as some of those other fancy-prancy elves she’d seen around the compound and in the movies, and Thorin’s behaviour toward him just rubbed her the wrong way.

‘Since when do _you_ care about rudeness?’ The Dwarf King countered her admonishment in a rumbling tone that was not as unfriendly as she’d expected.

She had to admit his argument was sound and huffed a reluctant ‘ _Touché_.’ Which was a word he probably didn’t understand, but the skin around his eyes crinkled in amusement none-the-less.

His fingers were back on her throat, checking if the bleeding had stopped. The wound had coagulated sufficiently enough, apparently, because he grunted in approval and started to remove his leather vambraces; laying them on the floor next to his sword. They were followed by his dark blue, intricately embroidered tunic. 

Rolling up the sleeves of his linen under-shirt, he rose from his crouch and walked to a low cabinet which stood against one of the walls. He picked up a couple of silver bottles, which were sealed with cork stoppers, and set them down on the edge of the bathing pool.

Then, he proceeded to untie his leather breeches, pushing them down his legs in the same movement as toeing off his boots.

‘What are you doing?’ Sabra didn’t think she’d ever been so surprised by the shift in someone’s behaviour in her entire life. 

The Thorin she knew would never undress in front of a woman as he did in that moment. That time in the woods didn’t count, because he’d already been naked when she’d stumbled upon him, and he had dressed himself quickly after his ‘swim’ in the creek.

‘I am preparing to bathe.’ After laying down his breeches next to his tunic, he dropped his heavy boots by the side of the door. Then he padded to the edge of the pool, barefoot; the linen under-shirt only marginally covering him, its hem barely reaching past mid-thigh.

Wading to the steps that led out of the pool, Sabra put her foot on the first step as she looked up at him, raising an inquiring eyebrow.

‘I can see that. Should I give you some privacy?’ 

‘Allow me to rephrase my previous answer. I am preparing to bathe _you_.’ With that, he put his hand on the edge of the pool, and hopped into the water. Surprisingly, the movement was much more graceful, and less splashy, than she would have expected from a male carrying Thorin’s muscled bulk. 

‘ _Bathe_... _me_?’ Was that a euphemism for something else? The dwarf had had the sharp of his dagger at her throat only minutes before, and now he was suddenly preparing to _bathe_ her? ‘ _Why on earth_ would you bathe _me?_ You’re convinced I’m possessed by some kind of demon or something!’

‘I have been assured that that is not the case by the most powerful elven witch in existence.’

‘But, you don’t trust the elves!’ Had she woken up in an alternate reality?

‘That is correct. But I also know that if you had posed a threat to anyone here, they would have taken you out without a second thought. Seeing that they haven’t...’

‘... you decided that Galadriel was telling the truth about me actually being _me_.’

‘Indeed.’ Thorin had waded closer to her, and laid his hands on her shoulders, turning her around, and gently steering her toward the part of the pool where he could easily reach the silver bottles he’d set down on the pool’s edge.

‘I _can_ wash myself, you know...’ 

‘Indulge me.’ His voice was quiet and deep as he interrupted her.

‘ _Why_?’ She really wanted to know what had changed that he suddenly had no qualms with them being alone and half naked in a pool-like bath, where before he had been much more restrained and cautious about them being alone together, even while they had still been completely dressed. And more surprising than that, was that a few minutes earlier he’d almost thrown Lord Elrond bodily out of the room when the elf objected against the unorthodox and scandalous idea of them being alone in a bathroom together for a longer period of time without having a chaperone present.

‘Because, two days ago, you died; and yesterday I washed your lifeless body in preparation of your funeral. Which is our tradition with kin who have passed on. After the cleansing, I dressed you in the burial dress you wear now... I mourned you... You _died_ , Sabra. All that was left of you was an empty, decaying shell.’ His solemn voice held more pain than she’d ever thought possible.

Slowly, Sabra turned around and looked up into his eyes. What she saw there told her that she couldn’t react with her usual acerbic sarcasm. 

‘What do you need?’ The question had left her lips before she’d had a chance to think on it. 

Thorin looked a little taken aback by her quick consent, but it didn’t stop him from answering her.

‘I need to bathe you... I need to wash away the memory of the funerary cleansing ritual from my mind. I cannot...’ His voice halted, and he heaved a deep sigh, full of sorrow. ‘I do not want to remember you... dead.’

Sabra nodded in sudden understanding. Only then it dawned on her that while she had been out, and had had the strangest experience of her whole life, he had witnessed her suffocate on her own blood; he’d seen her end. And usually when someone ended, they did not come back; especially not after two days. 

Compassion flooded her when she realised that he had lost and mourned her -no matter now undefined this ‘thing’ between them was, he clearly had cared enough for her to feel it deeply-, before she’d somehow reanimated.

‘Alright.’ She bunched together the copious amount of cloth from her skirt, which floated around them in the water. ‘Here, help me with my dress.’ Pulling the heavy, waterlogged fabric up over her shoulders, she wrestled to relieve herself of the garment.

‘You do not have to-’ Thorin sounded a bit bashful, even as his hands already raised up to help her with pulling the dress off.

‘Bullshit.’ She interrupted him. ‘You have to bathe me, and I need to get out of this fucking restrictive outfit. No wonder they only use it for funerals; it’s a bloody nuisance!’ Her voice had become muted with her pulling the weighty, wet material over her head. ‘Besides, I want this godawful smell off of me.’

Finally, they managed to divest her of the dress, and with a wet splat, it landed in a heap on the bathing room floor next to the pool.

‘That’s _much_ better.’ Sabra stated, before she realised that she felt slightly vulnerable now that she was out of the dress. Being naked in front of a man had never fazed her before, but after her... _ordeal_ , by the Brandywine Bridge, it just felt... not wrong, but different. Less secure... She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘So... now what?’ Looking up at Thorin, she saw how a dark shadow of grief still lingered in his solemn gaze while his eyes wandered over her face as if he still had trouble believing that she was really alive. When his uncharacteristically open gaze met her inquiring one, he schooled his features somewhat.

The Dwarf King didn’t take his eyes off of hers, though. He reached for one of the bottles on the pool’s edge; his gaze never trailing any lower than her face. He pulled out the stopper that sealed the bottle and poured a small amount of a delicious smelling substance into his cupped palm.

‘Lean your head forward.’

Doing as he said without throwing in a witty retort for once, Sabra bowed her head. Immediately, Thorin’s hands were in her hair, massaging the shampoo-like substance through her short tresses until it foamed lightly. She had to suppress a groan of bliss when he didn’t order her to rinse after that, but just continued to gently rub her scalp with his fingers. The strained muscles at the back of her head and neck slowly relaxed under his ministrations; the relief was instantaneous. A soft sigh of pleasure accidentally escaped her just before he removed his hands from her and helped her to lean her head back, so her hair was completely submerged in the water. As he carded his fingers through the strands to wash out the remnants of the foam, an expression of intense focus lay over his features.

Observing the stern male while he made sure her hair was clean of any soapy suds, she marvelled at his caring gentleness. Oh, he’d been gentle before, but this felt like a whole deeper layer of care. It made her feel... cherished, somehow. Not something she was used to in her line of work, or her life, for that matter. It felt strange, but nice.

Mindful of the appropriate distance between their bodies, Thorin helped her to stand again, taking care that the water that dripped from her hair did not sting her eyes. Then he opened another bottle, and took her hand from where it rested on her opposite arm, turning it palm up. He poured a tiny amount of an almost oil-like liquid into her hand and put the bottle back onto the floor again. Massaging the liquid into her hand, starting with her fingers, he worked his way up to her wrist. Repeating the action with her other hand, his sole focus was on cleansing her skin from any dirt or smells.

After that, he picked up a washcloth from where it lay next to the bottles and lathered it up with the same substance that he’d put in her hair. Surprised, Sabra looked at the four towels and two wash cloths that had miraculously appeared on the edge of the pool. 

Someone must have brought them in when Thorin had been working on her hair. She didn’t understand how she could have missed that. Had she been so terribly distracted by the fingers on her scalp that she hadn’t noticed someone coming into the room? _Apparently so... I’m slipping. Should be a bit more vigilant. Never know where the danger might come from._ The thoughts flitted through her head distractedly as the Dwarf King gently took a hold of one of her wrists.

Thorin lathered up her arms with controlled, long strokes, and, slowly, her whole body relaxed. Though she was completely naked, he never made any indication that this was about anything other than what he had claimed. Bathing her. 

The washcloth slid over her skin in an almost hypnotic rhythm, washing away the stench that had permeated her skin. Working his way across her clavicles, Thorin cleaned her neck, being mindful of the small nick by her jaw.

Then he moved downward, and hesitated, hand hovering just above her breast, his gaze shooting to hers, as if seeking permission. Sabra laid her hand over his, and pushed it, and the cloth, down, over her left breast, a quiet breath escaping her when he tentatively cupped the soft mound through the thin fabric. The heat of his palm against her slightly chilled flesh caused her to shiver. 

Breathing deeply, she tried to fight down the unexpected and completely inappropriate flare up of her libido. She knew this wasn’t about sex. It was _so_ very much _not_ about sex. But there was something about almost dying, or maybe even fully dying in her case, and coming back from that, and about the sudden nearness of this strong, capable, and sometimes infuriating male that brought with it a heightened awareness inside of her, of everything that was happening in that moment. Ruthlessly, she pushed the ember of desire down. _Not. the. fucking. time._

Apparently, Thorin had less trouble keeping it in his pants, figuratively speaking, because, after that initial hesitation to touch her more intimately, he resumed his washing of her body, gently lathering up her breasts and the part of her ribcage that wasn’t submerged, an expression of intense, almost reverent attention gracing his features. Stepping around her, he worked his way to her back, starting at her shoulders, massaging the last of the soapy suds into the skin that stretched over her shoulder blades.

He dipped the cloth into the water, rinsing it, and proceeded to use it to scoop water over her shoulders, washing away the soap from her skin.

Standing perfectly still, Sabra leaned her head forward and closed her eyes as the warm water flowed down her upper body, a bone-deep languor taking over. There must have been some ingredient in the soap that caused her to become so relaxed. Her muscles hadn’t felt this loose and languid in years. _Or maybe it’s the water..._ part of her brain provided. _Oh, shut up, it’s not the water, and you know it. It’s something else, or should I say, a certain..._ ** _someone_** _else that has you all relaxed... and hot... and bothered..._ Another part immediately countered. She knew that that part was right. Not that she was admitting it to herself of course. _Nope. Not going there._

At least, she did her best to not go there, until Thorin closed the respectful distance he had kept between them, pressing his clothed chest lightly up agianst her upper back, and slipping the hand with the washcloth around her waist to her tummy from where he had been massaging her lower back, now gently rubbing the skin of her abdomen where it was hidden under the surface of the sudsy water; moving the cloth from her waist, to her belly button, to her right hip, back to her belly button. The biceps of his right arm flexed around her ribs as his hand traveled to her left hip, up to her ribs, and over her midriff back to her right side, down over her waist, to her hip, and then to her belly button again.

His fingers brushed the top of her pubic bone as his palm moved over her lower tummy. An involuntary shiver of anticipation wracked her body. 

_Oh gods, just a little lower... please... I need to..._ It shocked her how desperately wanton her inner voice sounded and she quickly cut the train of thought short.

Behind her, Thorin froze; the hand on her abdomen halting its movement. 

_Oh, shit..._ Had she said that out loud?

Licking her lips before clenching them together tightly, she stared straight forward with wide eyes. The way that Thorin had frozen behind her did _not_ herald anything good, she was sure of it. She’d probably crossed a line he’d set for himself. For them. Which meant another step backwards in their ‘acquaintance’. _Fuck! How am I going to fix this fucking mess? Way to go, you fucki-_

A surprised breath was forced from her lungs when the fingers which rested on her tummy, just shy of her pubic bone, discarded the wash cloth into the water, and moved again, sliding down to the beginning of the slit between her labia, and then further down. The palm of Thorin’s hand gently cupped her sex as he pressed one thick finger against the building heat between her legs, the soft folds of her vulva giving way to its slow movement, until it reached her entrance, where a wetness bloomed which had nothing to do with the water that surrounded them. Then, slowly, he dragged his finger, and the silky wetness that coated it, through her folds, up to her clit, where he circled the small pearl with a gentleness that had Sabra on the edge of an orgasm within seconds. _What the ever-loving fuck?!_ Her mind tried to keep up with the sensations that the male behind her so easily coaxed from her, but it was a losing battle as he slowly built up the pressure. A breathy, disappointed moan escaped her when he stilled his hand, his finger only making contact with her clit with the lightest of touches. 

‘Lower... Like this?’ His voice quietly rumbled next to her right ear when he delicately tapped his finger against her. She gasped. It was almost too much, and at the same time not enough. Not enough by far.

Instinctively, she pressed herself back against his bulk, tilting her pelvis backwards. This brought her back flush up against not only his chest and abdomen, but, further down, against the press of an incredibly hard, thick cock, as it became trapped between his linen shirt, that was plastered to the swell of her bum, and his pelvis.

A deep groan escaped him when she unexpectedly pushed her hips back against him, his hips flexing involuntarily at the sudden pressure. He clearly hadn’t been as unaffected by his bathing of her as she had thought earlier. No wonder he’d kept his distance, his cock felt like it was more than ready to _go_. 

Going on the feel of him against her, she concluded that, though he might be average, or maybe just above average in length, which was just fine with her as she wasn’t built to take something too big, he was packing quite some heat in the width department. _Holy shit..._ Biting her lip in anticipation, she wrapped her fingers around his wrist, and urged him to move his fingers where they had stilled against her.

‘Just like that... _please..._ ’ She pleaded. With her other hand she reached back between them, and touched him through the cloth of his shirt; slowly rubbing up and down his length. When she found that it was not enough, she pulled the shirt up and away, her hand finally closing around his hot, hard length; feeling the velvety soft skin shift over the steel underneath as she pumped him.

She was rewarded by a low growl that traveled straight down to her core; stoking up the embers inside her to an all-scorching heat.

‘We are playing with fire.’ Thorin breathed against the skin of her neck, just below her ear, where he pressed an openmouthed kiss; the prickle of his beard contributing to the violent shudder that wracked her body when he followed the kiss with a firm lick of his tongue. 

In spite of his words of hesitation, he once again increased pressure on her clit, resuming the slow, circling motion with his fingers. A moan of pleasure and relief spilled from Sabra’s parted lips, her eyes falling closed when the sensations became too overwhelming to focus on anything else. Her hand found its way to his neck from where it had been caressing his cock, and she pulled him even closer to her.

Subconsciously, she pushed herself up to her toes, tilting her hips back even more in answer to his ministrations, and spreading her legs to give him more room to move his hand. 

This sudden change in their position caused his cock to slip, from where it had been pushed up against her bum cheek, to the gap between her legs. The scorching heat of his member slid past her entrance, coating itself in her wetness as it buried itself between her labia. A whoosh of hot breath was blown against her shoulder when Thorin let out a surprised groan, his left arm almost automatically wrapping itself around her ribcage below her breasts; both to keep her upright now that her balance had been compromised, and to pull her closer to him.

Gasping, she pushed herself down onto Thorin’s shaft as it slid through her folds. So fucking close. So fucking hot. Apparently, dwarves burning hotter than humans also applied to the genital department, and in that moment, she wanted nothing more than to feel his thick, scalding hardness thrust itself into her body while his fingers worked her in tandem with his cock, pushing them both towards an earth-shattering orgasm.

‘ _Please..._ ’ If the desperate, pleading note in her voice didn’t tell him what she needed, then the tenseness of her body as it pushed back against him, did.

‘Are you certain?’ He didn’t even try to change her mind anymore. There was only the question to which the answer, if it was a positive one, would ensure him that she gave her consent. ‘Even after...’ he let his voice trail off, but she knew what he meant. If anything, she needed this even more because of what he meant. To forget the feeling of that monst- 

No! This was not the time to reminisce on... _that_.

Sabra sucked in a deep breath, and focused on the sensations and desires that Thorin unleashed inside of her when he touched her.

‘Oh, I’m sure... _so_ sure.’ She breathed. ‘Just... go slow... and don’t box me in between you and a wall, or something, alright?’

‘Understood.’ Thorin nuzzled her neck, and placed another openmouthed kiss on her pulse point. Then he hoisted her up a bit higher; the tips of her big toes now only touching the bottom of the pool when she stretched out her legs. The muscles in his arms flexed against her when he positioned her just right for his cock to press up against her entrance.

With a gentleness that brought tears to her eyes, Thorin slowly lowered her until he felt the first stretching of her around him. The vibration of a moan traveled up from his chest and traveled through her body. Feeling the tenseness of his body as he held her against him told her that he had an iron hold on his instincts; which were probably telling him to just thrust up into her and fuck her senseless. But he didn’t, he went slow, as she had asked, no matter the cost to himself, and that endeared him more to her than any fast, hard fuck ever could have.

She had to admit that the stretching pressure, which increased as his cock slowly impaled her, caused her a slight discomfort; her body not used to being invaded by something so thick. She tried to breathe through it, though, because, in spite of the discomfort, it just felt too good to stop. When Thorin noticed the mounting tension inside her body, his fingers resumed their circling movements on her clit, while he fondled her right breast with his left hand, caressing her nipple with his thumb. He gently inched his cock into her by pulling her down as he slowly thrust it up between her folds.

‘Unclench your muscles, _ibinê,_ or I could hurt you.’ Heeding Thorin’s warning, she tried to relax her tensed up pelvic muscles a bit, which allowed him to penetrate her deeper than before.

‘Jesus... _Fuck...’_ Sabra moaned when he hit a sensitive, but oh so delicious spot inside her. It was just what she needed for her body to relax around him. Suddenly, it went from trying to push out the intrusive flesh, to accepting, and wanting more. With a new thrust he sunk further into her. A wanton mewl escaped her, and she buried her left hand in the hair at the back of his neck, earning her an appreciative groan from him. She clasped his right forearm with her right hand, fingers digging into the muscles, just to have something to anchor herself to while he carried all of her weight, and slowly fucked her higher and higher up a cresting wave of pleasure.

‘Good?’ 

When had his voice become so gritty and... raw?

‘So... _oh gods_... so _good_.’ An answering, deep thrust had her gasping for breath. ‘Don’t... _ah..._ don't stop.’

He kept up a steady pace, easing himself into her, and moments later, his hips were flush with hers, the tip of his cock only just brushing against her cervix. This almost tickling nudge ellicited another wave of pleasure from deep within her and she shivered. Thorin held himself still for a few seconds, his fingers languidly massaging her clit as he allowed her time to adjust to having him completely inside her. 

‘ _More._ ’ She demanded impatiently, grinding her hips back against him, then whimpering in disappointment when he clamped a large hand down on her hip to keep her still. ‘ _Please...’_ Her voice broke hoarsely on the latter word.

‘ _Wait_.’ The command was more a growl than anything else, sounding as if ripped from the deepest recesses of his chest. Thorin breathed fast and irregularly against her neck, his teeth scraping against the sensitive skin, causing goosebumps to erupt on her arms. She froze at the aggressive note in his voice. This, combined with the steel bands that were his arms wrapped around her torso, keeping her immobile, caused a sudden panic to claw its way up her throat. He must have felt the shift in atmosphere acutely, because, immediately, the vice that was his hand on her hip loosened its hold and he started caressing her flank in a soothing motion. ‘Shhh, it is alright.’ The murmur next to her ear was appeasing. ‘I needed a moment to gather myself, or else it would have been over much too soon.’ 

The rhythmic strokes of his hand and the deep bass of his voice slowly brought her back from the brink of panic. A shuddering breath escaped her when she tried to relax her tensed up muscles.

‘Do you need to stop?’

Her answer was decisive and immediate, in spite of what had just transpired. She wanted this; _needed_ this, needed _him_. _Gods_ , if he _dared_ to stop she’d probably strangle him.

‘What? _No!_ Don’t stop!’ Pushing back into him, she wiggled her hips, causing him to let out a low groan. The sound of his pleasure elicited an explosion of butterflies in her tummy. Again, she rocked her hips back against his.

‘ _Witch.’_ He hissed, sounding both incredibly aroused and mildly amused, pushing his own hips forward to meet hers. A soft laugh that soon changed into a moan bubbled up from her chest. His hand slid back between her legs, but instead of his fingers latching onto her clit, they traveled further down, to where they were so intimately joined. She felt how he spread his fingers over her labia on either side of his slowly pumping cock. ‘Have you any idea how it feels to have you wrapped so snugly around me that it almost hurts? To feel the tightness and heat of a body that was not built, and never meant, to accommodate mine.’ He moved his fingers to press against her where he sank into her body. ‘To feel how your body struggles to stretch, but manages it so beautifully none-the-less; to _know_ that _I_ am the cause of the pleasure that blooms from the strain...’ The rumble of his voice vibrated through her body, contributing to the mounting tension in her lower abdomen. _‘You are exquisite.’_

His fingers were on her clit again, dragging it gently up and down in tandem to the push and pull of his cock. Sabra’s breath came in ragged gasps when the pressure inside her increased and Thorin’s hips snapped forward more forcefully as he sped up his movements. Within seconds, she was lost to everything but the incredible feel of him pushing into her with powerful thrusts, and the intense pleasure that built to a crescendo from where his fingers worked her to the edge of an orgasm that she was sure would shatter her completely.

Behind her, Thorin’s whole body felt like one hard granite block that was moulded to her back; his muscles seizing up more and more as he drove himself into her, pushing them both towards the release they were so desperately chasing.

Then, finally, she was there, teetering on the edge for a few thrusts before falling over, her body convulsing, muscles spasming not just around his cock, but throughout her whole being. A loud wail tore from her throat as blinding pleasure splintered her; exploding her into a million tiny pieces. 

Thorin snarled against the skin between her shoulder and her neck, his teeth sinking into the muscle as he thrust almost violently into her, pounding her through her orgasm and into another; the second one even more powerful than the first. It left her seeing stars, and she swore she lost consciousness for a second. When she came back around, still riding the immense high of pleasure, the cock that had continued to move inside her twitched. She gasped at the unexpected sensation.

‘ _Oh... fuck..._ ’ The breath was stolen from her lungs when Thorin thrust himself as deeply into her as he could; one, two, three, four more times before he pushed his cock up against her cervix, and let out a gravelly growl as his release bloomed hot and copiously inside her, triggering one more, smaller orgasm deep inside her vagina. Moaning at the sweet, scalding thrill that radiated outward from her lower abdomen, Sabra let her hand slide into the water and down to where she and Thorin were joined, her fingers touching the scorching hot member that was buried deep inside her. She could feel how it twitched as it finished pumping its juices into her, and she marvelled at the drawn out span of Thorin’s orgasm. Dwarves had it slightly better, it seemed, than the two-seconds-of-pleasure ejaculation that was bestowed upon human males.

The male behind her quietly moaned when he felt her fingers fluttering over the base of his cock.

‘ _Maralmizi, ibinê... Maralmizi...’_ He murmured next to her ear before gently nibbling on her earlobe. 

Sabra leaned her head back on his shoulder with a sigh as she caught her breath; delicious tremours of pleasure still shuddering through her body as it came down from its high. 

‘What does that mean?’ She asked, curious about his language.

‘Hmmm?’ Thorin seemed more preoccupied with nibbling on her earlobe than answering her.

‘The thing you just said... Marlmzi, ibbeenay... What does it mean?’

Feeling how his whole being went rigid, she wondered if she had said something wrong, but then he relaxed again, and answered her.

‘It is Khuzdul, the language of my people. I do not know the exact translation in Westron... Maybe... _sweetness_ is the word that comes closest to its meaning.’ He sounded dismissive about it, and, in spite of her doubts on his inability to correctly translate the words, she decided not to press. She was unwilling to disturb the languid buzz that had taken over her body, and that was something which would definitely happen when she engaged into another round of bickering with Thorin.

Leaning back against him, she decided to just enjoy the quiet satisfaction that had taken over the atmosphere in the room. Slowly, Thorin softened inside her, and when he slipped out, she wiggled around in his arms until she was turned towards him. Tilting her head up, she pressed a soft kiss to his lips; one he enthusiastically reciprocated as his hands caressed her back. He was still taking much of her weight, and when she tried to step back from him, he seemed reluctant to let her go.

She stumbled sideways on her wobbly legs when he finally released her, and he had his arms back around her within the blink of an eye; catching her before she went under.

‘I think I lost the ability to walk.’ She joked, looking up at him with a grin.

The skin around Thorin’s eyes crinkled and his eyes shone with humour when he picked her up, bridal style.

‘Then I will carry you until you regain the use of your legs. It would only be right, as I am to blame for your current infirmity.’

Sabra snorted indelicately at the undertone of male pride in his voice.

‘Cheeky bastard.’ 

Thorin only hummed good-naturedly, and carried her up the steps and out of the pool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew... Is it hot in here, or what?
> 
> Leave us (Muse and me) a note if you like the story so far. Kudos are also very much appreciated. Those are the noms that keep me writing. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! <3
> 
> Cheers!
> 
> Ps: don’t be fooled by the sudden happy-go-lucky post-coital bliss induced compliance of the usually so feisty ‘couple’. I assure you, turmoil, toil and trouble are right around the corner. ;)


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